


Chicken Feathers in 221B

by GrayceAdamsArchive



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse of Mycroft's umbrella, Accidental Sexting, Accidentally on purpose sexting, Angst, Bored Sherlock, Drugged John, Drunk John, Eventual Smut, First Time, Frustrated John, Frustrated Sherlock, Fumbling Seduction, Heartbreak, John Plays the Piano, John insisting on being straight, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Meddling Mrs. Hudson, Meddling Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson ships Johnlock, Romance, Severe sexual tension, Sexual Confusion, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock playing the violin, Virgin!Sherlock, Why are there chickens in the flat?, happily ever after eventually, song fic sorta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 63,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayceAdamsArchive/pseuds/GrayceAdamsArchive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler took a slightly obscene pleasure in informing everyone that the great detective Sherlock Holmes had never known the pleasure of getting hot and heavy with someone between the sheets. The detective seemed to brush it off, calling feelings and physical attraction a liability, declaring for everyone to hear that he was completely uninterested in sex and relationships. But that's not quite true. Sherlock isn't not interested in sex. He just can't find someone who interests him. Every time he looks at someone, he sees things, things that no potential lover would want to know about a prospective partner. At least, not for a long time, like they only brush their teeth every three days, or they don't wash behind their ears. Or that they've had forty-three partners before you, or that they picked something up somewhere that's making their private bits itch. Things you could maybe look past once you were in love. But Sherlock doesn't have that luxury. Normally, it doesn't bother him, the ability to look and see everything about someone. But then, one day, after drugging his flatmate and tricking him into thinking he was about to be eaten by a Hound, the straight-as-an-arrow John Watson gives Sherlock Holmes butterflies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Discomfort

John couldn't breathe. He also felt like he was about to piss himself, but he fought to keep that from happening while trying to restart his respritatory system.

_"Keep talking to me, John,"_ Sherlock's voice buzzed through the cell phone in the doctor's hand. _"What do you see?"_

"Nothing," John gasped as another low, terrifying rumble filled the dark lab room. "I don't see anything, but it's in here, I know it's in here-" His voice choked off in a terrified whimper as a large, warped shadow passed over the sheet covering the bent metal cage he was cowering in.

_"Talk to me, John. Do you see it?"_

"It's here," John whispered, mercilessly squashing the desire to scream, or possibly vomit as another growl sounded, much closer, and the shadow stilled outside the sheet. John took a deep breath and shut his eyes. This was it. He was going to die, mauled by a genetically engineered hound from hell. He would say there were worse ways to go, but there really wasn't. Burning to death might be a bit worse. But not by much.

_"John?"_

He wanted to say something to his half-mad genius of an arsehole roommate, but what do you say to man that irritated the hell out of you with his bizarre experiments and unpredictable behavior when you're about to die? Thanks for being such a dick all the time? Sorry I took your eyeballs out of the fridge to make room for the milk?

_"John! What do you see?"_

"The hound, Sherlock," John barely dared to breathe, hearing heavy footfalls coming towards him. God, this was it. This was the end. "Sherlock, I-I don't-" And then the sheet was flung aside, letting in bright light and the unbelievably beautiful and welcome sight of a tall, pale man in a dark coat with dark curls and the most unusual green eyes John had ever seen. John wanted nothing more than to kiss him at that moment, so welcome was he over the sight of the monsterous hound.

"John!" Sherlock said, holding out his hand to the doctor huddled in the corner of the cage, staring at the detective as if he were some kind of deity come down to Earth. Sherlock didn't put too much stock in the expresion, he was more interested in the details of John's body language and the little hints around his eyes and mouth and hands that told him he believed he really had been chased and cornered by the fabled hound. Experiment confirmed. They were being drugged.

Sherlock was completely unprepared for John to bypass his outstretched hand and throw his strong arms around his neck. Shock and something hot flooded his belly as John clutched him close to his body, gasping a few terrified, dry sobs into his ear.

"God, Sherlock," he huffed, and the detective felt something strange tingle down the length of his spine. Baffled, he patted John's back until he pulled away, and then left the facility with him following.

~*~

John was still very cross with him when they returned to London after the Baskerville case.

"Don't be angry, John, it was a controlled experiement in a closed lab. Nothing bad could have happened to you," Sherlock sighed, seeing long lines of screamingly angry in John's crossed arms and slouched posture.

"You drugged me, Sherlock. You _drugged_ me! How could you _drug me?"_ John snarled, refusing to look at him. The detective sighed and ran a hand back through his messy hair.

"I needed to know."

John sat in stony silence for a moment before snapping, "That's your problem, you know. You always have to _know_. You don't ever make an assumption, never take a chance on a gut feeling. It's all deduction and reasoning and logic and science. And while you're _brilliant_ about all that, you're a bloody _moron_ when it comes to how the rest of the world works. You trample all over Molly whenever you see her, you trash our flat every other day, purposefully irritate and embarrass Anderson and Donovan-which I really don't mind anyway-and you bloody drug your flatmate for an experiment that could have been solved with a few simple drug tests!" John wrapped up his little rant with an irritated huff at the blank, almost condensending look on Sherlock's face, a look that said, _"I already knew all that. Why do you feel the need to repeat the obvious?"_ John turned and stared back out the window, grumbling to himself.

Sherlock leaned back into the seat, pondering his flatmate's outburst. He supposed it had been a bit extreme to use John as a guneia pig; he could have used Lestrade in a pinch. But there were repercussions to drugging a DI of Scotland Yard. _Dull._ And John's suggestion of drug testing...well, the drugging of the doctor had been much more informative. Sherlock sighed and popped the collar of his coat up around his ears as he leaned back into his seat. This could be a very long ride home.

_~*~_

Two weeks after the Baskerville Hound case, John came home from work at the hospital to find the flat covered in a strange mixture of loose papers, scattered chicken feathers, speckles of blood, and a few free roaming, half-naked chickens. The clucking birds fluttered away in panic at John's entrance, who restrained the urge to drop the grocieries he'd fetched on the way home in order to strangle the man sitting on the sofa in a bathrobe with his fingers steapled under his chin.

"I think...I might kill you," John said, watching one of the birds settle into his favorite chair, still clucking away.

"Nonsense. You like me far too much to kill me," Sherlock said without opening his eyes. "I'm afraid there's not too much room in the fridge. I'm conducting an experiment with the bird droppings."

"And the feathers?" John sighed, wondering what had possessed Sherlock to half-pluck the live animals.

"They were taking too long. I frightened them into providing me with the excriment I needed," Sherlock replied, making John's mouth fall open. Why was it that the doctor had little trouble picturing an impatient Sherlock Holmes chasing chickens and scaring them into shitting themselves?

"Is this for a case? Or just because you're bored?" John asked, going into the kitchen to put away what he'd bought. There was, in fact, little room in the refridgerator, since many of the clear shelves were stacked with petri dishes of chicken droppings. "That's disgusting. You do know that we eat what comes out of this fridge, right?"

"I don't eat when I'm on a case," Sherlock answered, opening his eyes and turning his head to look at John. "It clouds my thinking." John frowned and then sighed in resignation as he put the last of the grocieries away.

"What's this one?" he asked, wandering back out into the living room. He shooed the bird in his seat onto the floor, then grimanced at the present it had left behind for him. He chose to sit on the couch instead, next to the detective who was looking at him curiously. Sherlock filled him in on the details of the case of a girl found murdered in a barn, and how she'd been killed. After texting Lestrade the answer, Sherlock decended into silence, watching the telly without seeing it. John glanced from the B-rated movie playing to Sherlock, watching the detective's brain whirl and spin and accelerate and move from one puzzle to the next, doing his best to keep the boredom at bay.

"I suppose that I do, in fact, owe you an apology of sorts," the dark-haired man said finally. If John had been drinking tea, he'd have spat it out. Instead, he settled for sitting up suddenly, startling the chicken that had settled on the back of the couch.

"What?" the doctor demanded. Sherlock I'm-too-smart-for-the-rest-of-the-world Holmes never apologized.

_Never._

"For drugging you. In hindsight, it does seem a bit....extreme. There were other ways I could have conducted the experiement," Sherlock scowled at him. He didn't like what John's body was telling him. _Disbelief, confusion, suspicion, smugness, aggression, defensive._ Though, it wasn't as if he hadn't expected it. But then... _consideration. Faith._ _Forgiveness. Affection_.

_Trust._

"You're forgiven," John said, turning back to the telly and missing the expression of shock on Sherlock's face. The pale detective felt as if he'd just been socked in the gut. No one, and he meant _no one_ , not even _Mycroft_ had taken one of his rare, almost non-existent apologies at face value. No one took his offering of half-hearted peace right next to the promise of future, probably-not-right-by-society's-standards escapades and smiled while looking at some terrible straight-to-television-movie. No one. But John had. Something warm and fluttery-feeling bloomed in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, different from the rushing heat he'd experienced when John had hugged him and cried out for him in the lab, but somehow, exactly the same. Suddenly very uncomfortable, Sherlock jumped to his feet and bolted for his room, leaving a confused John Watson behind him.

The doctor blinked after his flatmate's abrupt departure, but shrugged and took it in stride, putting it down as one more of the strange behavioral patterns of Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Numbers

Sherlock didn't understand the strange sensation in his stomach. It wasn't bad exactly, but it made him feel uncomfortable around John in the weeks following what the doctor dubbed the Chicken Feathers Incident. Sherlock decided to approach the matter scientifically, discreetly avoiding John for nearly a week before the doctor caught on to what he was doing. When John came home, Sherlock was already in his room, and when one case came up when he needed John's help, he avoided looking directly at him or speaking to him for more than a few seconds. John raised an eyebrow at the cold shoulder Sherlock displayed, but said nothing.

The strange sensation went away, but oddly, Sherlock almost missed it. He also found that he was developing a small ache in his chest cavity. It was abnormal, and slightly concerning. Perhaps he was developing a sporradic heart murmur?

On day thirteen of Sherlock Avoiding John Like the Plague, John came home to Sherlock laying on the couch amid seemingly random pictures of buildings, both burnt and not spread around him on the floor.

"What are you doing?" John asked, laying his jumper over the back of his armchair, which had recieved a thorough cleaning once Sherlock had released the chickens into Scotland Yard with numbers around their necks reading 1, 2, 3, and 5. Most of the Yard still thought there was a chicken wandering around somewhere.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, stared at him for a second, then got up and headed for the door, not bothering to pull on shoes or anything.

"Sherlock!" John protested. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Out," the detective said waspishly, throwing open the door.

"Without shoes?" John ran forward and grabbed his arm and spinning him about. "What is wrong with you lately?"

"Nothing," Sherlock snapped. "I'm bored." John sighed.

"Of course you are. How long has it been since you've had a case?"

"Nine days four hours thirty seven minutes and nineteen....twenty...seconds," Sherlock snapped, trying to jerk his arm out of the doctor's grip.

"And since you slept?" John's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Last night," Sherlock said, but his darting eyes revealed the lie. John growled softly under his breath. The detective felt his stomach leap into his throat, and spat out, "Fine, fine! Three days."

"Go. To. Bed." John snarled, half-dragging the taller man deeper into the flat.

"I can't sleep!" Sherlock protested. "I don't want to sleep!" Sherlock's heart was pounding, his throat was dry, and John's hand wrapped around his upper arm felt like a fire brand, hot and demanding attention.

"Listen, not sleeping is not good for you! It causes all kinds of problems-" Sherlock did his best to tune out as John listed off the negative effects of not sleeping. Instead, he tried to overcome and file away the sensations of being so close to John was causing.

The doctor was standing within six inches of his person, his slightly weathered face drawn into a disapproving frown as he talked. Sherlock studied how the skin around his eyes and mouth moved as he looked up at him, observing the sublte changes in expression and how his sandy hair was getting long again. Sherlock continued to observe and catalogue and deduce little things about John through his apperance (been running hand through hair, stressful day at clinic; bags under eyes, been having nightmares again; lips are chapped, has he been snogging? Barest hint of lavender perfume, seems he and Sarah have been getting along again) and wasn't sure why a few of those things made him a little irritated.

"Sherlock, are you listening?" John demanded.

"No," he replied sullenly.

"Stop deducing me and pay attention!" John barked, making Sherlock jump and then glower at him.

"I have little incentive to," Sherlock snapped, finally jerking his arm free of John's grip. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to do." Sherlock stormed into his room and slammed the door, throughly frustrated. As he calmed slightly, he placed a hand over his heart, puzzled. The ache was gone, but he now felt this light burning, an acidic feeling that he wasn't overly fond of. Perhaps he had eaten something strange. Probably from the left over chicken petri dishes he had yet to clean out of the fridge. Some of their food may have been contaminated.

Putting down his body's odd behavior to an upset digestive system, Sherlock pulled his violin out of its case and rested it under his chin. Pulling the bow across the strings, he played the notes as they came to his mind, releasing his roiling thoughts into audible music.

In the main room, John turned the telly's volume down to mute as violin music swelled in the flat from Sherlock's room. The music was obviously being played by ear, striking an odd sour note here and there, but mostly it conveyed frustration and confusion to John, who was often able to unravel the meaning of Sherlock's self-written music. The notes moved from quick and sharp to something slower, and John shook his head as Sherlock escaped from the constant running of his mind, at least for a little while.

~*~

Sherlock played violin so much over the next few weeks, his fingers started to bleed, despite the calluses from playing since childhood. He rarely left his room, emerging only once for a case he deemed "terribly boring and exhaustingly dull."

John, on the other hand, popped in and out of the flat with work at the clinic, a couple of dates with Sarah (one of which ended well, and the other...not so much). It was after the second date, when Sarah told him that she needed more space, when John came home to find Sherlock trying to bandage his bleeding fingers, scowling heavily at the inconvenience. 

"Good God, Sherlock, what have you done to yourself?" John demanded, tossing aside his jumper and bag to grab his flatmate's hands and inspect the damage done. 

"It's nothing," Sherlock snapped, attempting to snatch his fingers back. The sensation of John's hands touching his skin made something akin to electricity dance along his spine. But that was impossible.

"It's not nothing, you've taken off nearly all your skin!" John sighed, taking the antiseptic and band-aids from him and treating him properly. "Why have you been playing so much lately?"

"Bored," Sherlock snapped. "So bored. Lestrade took me off the arsonist case, though he knows they'll never solve it without me, and I have nothing to do!" John frowned.

"Why did he take you off the case?" he asked as he finished taping Sherlock's fingers up.

"Because I told him Anderson was shagging Donovan in the break room," the detective said, frowning as he inspected the doctor's work.

"You say that all the time," John pointed out.

"I said it as a warning this time. He didn't listen. Don't ever eat off the counter in there," Sherlock said, smirking as John made a face. "Lestrade kicked me off until I apologize."

"Then why don't you?"

"I have no reason to. I did try to warn him from going in there. If anyone should be apologizing, it's him," Sherlock sniffed. "Besides, I never apologize."

"You apologized to me," John said softly, drawing Sherlock's attention. The detective felt his heart give an unnatural squeeze at the gentle expression on the doctor's face.

"Yes," Sherlock replied quietly. "So I did."

~*~

Greg Lestrade eyed the surly-looking Sherlock Holmes, weighing the half-muttered, obviously insincere apology against the fact that several more people had been burned alive in the last couple of weeks and he was no closer to catching the murderer.

Behind the grumpy detective, John Watson gave Lestrade a half-pleading, half-ecouraging smile. The Detective Inspector heaved a sigh, then picked up a fat manilla folder from his desk and held it out to them.

"Thank you," John took the folder from him, looking pointedly at Sherlock, who decided to remain stubbornly silent. Lestrade nodded, silently hoping that the moody, dark-haired man would be able to help the secretly desperate Scotland Yard.

The folder contained everything they knew about the arsonist case, the buildings that had been burned, the evidence left at the scene, the twenty nine people that had been killed. Everything they knew, and they still couldn't catch the bastard. Lestrade had only been one more burnt building, one more gruesome body away from rushing over to Baker Street and begging for Sherlock's help. The fact that the detective had come to him did little other than soothe his ego and help him believe that they might actually catch this psycho before somebody else died.

~*~

John sat in his chair in 221b, watching Sherlock pace and thumb through the folder, randomly tacking them to the walls and the furniture, waving his free hand rather sporradically as he moved through his mind palace. Frustration and anger made his movements hard and sharp, and John pretended to read a book in an attempt to keep the detective's focus off him.

"Grays Inn Road....Victoria Street....Exton Street....Camden Road...dammit, what's the _connection?_ " Sherlock shouted, throwing the folder and causing papers and pictures to go flying. Breathing hard, he stared at the mess, then strode around, staring at the pictures, but not bothering to pick them up. "There has to be a connection. It's not in the people, that's obvious. The buildings...older, newer, construction, doesn't matter, what's the _connection!_ "

John watched Sherlock pace and grumble, cocking an eyebrow over the book he wasn't reading. After a few minutes of angrily striding around, Sherlock stilled, standing in the middle of the room.

"John," he said suddenly. "Stand up."

"What?" the doctor replied, surprised by the sudden demand.

"Stand. _Up_ ," Sherlock hissed, darting over to him and pulling him up out of his chair. He looked him up and down, observing, taking in every thing he could deduce from the doctor's appearance. "You've started having nightmares about Afghanistan again, though you don't know why. You and Sarah were getting along rather well until you started to move too quickly for her tastes, though not in the physical department, she was more than happy to have sex with you, but didn't like the idea of going public with you again, which disappoints you and makes you feel the urge to eat more biscuits with your tea than usual. You had a date a few nights ago that went well, though not as well as you would have liked, since she had a dog that didn't really take to you, and-"

"Sherlock!" John interuppted, grabbing Sherlock at his neck and elbow. "Stop. Focus on the case. The arsonist. The facts. Think, Sherlock. What's the commonality? Run the numbers, think through the evidence-" Sherlock's hand flew up and slapped over John's mouth, silencing him. "Herrrawwk-" the doctor protested.

Sherlock felt a thrill in the pit of his stomach at the feeling of John's lips on his skin, but he shoved it aside to focus on more important things.

 _"Numbers_ ," the detective hissed. "That's it. That's the pattern!" Sherlock spun around and started picking up and throwing aside photos, muttering to himself until finally, "Aha! I've got it! Come on, John!" Sherlock threw on his coat and knotted his scarf around his throat as John yanked his jumper back over his head, following the half-mad detective out of Baker Street and into a cab that Sherlock mercilessly stole from a younger couple that looked quite offended as John offered them a rushed apology.

"Montegu Street, number sixteen. It was all in the pattern. Numbers, John, numbers, the addresses, the date, the time. All in a pattern. How did I not see it before?" Sherlock mumured, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor of the cab.

"What?" John asked, only just keeping up with what Sherlock was saying.

"The last act of arsonry and murder took place on the fifteenth, at nine twenty-one PM at number 15 Linhope Street. Fifteen to sixteen, nine twenty-one to ten thirty two, fifteenth to the sixteenth. Numbers, John!" Sherlock said, scowling. It was ten twenty-four. If they didn't reach the soon-to-be-burned location, they'd lose the killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think?


	3. Burn

The cab coasted to a halt in front of the vacant building, the headlights catching on the reflective For Rent sign in the window. Sherlock jumped out the door and bounded up the steps as John quickly tossed the money due over the seat at the cabby, following his flatmate. Sherlock jiggled the handle, but it appeared to be locked. Taking a step back, he swept his eyes over the building, trying to find a way inside. The killer was here, he was positive of it. The second floor window was cracked, more than half an inch. Had it been opened by the landlord showing a propective tenant the space, it would have been closed again to keep the weather out. Sherlock, with John in tow, found his way to the back of the building, and tried to find another way inside.

"Give me a boost," Sherlock said, spotting the fire escape and turning to John.

"What?" John blinked at him, and Sherlock spat out a curse in his impatience. Grabbing the shorter man, he spun him around, force him to crouch and clambered onto his back to give him the vital four more inches to reach the ladder for the fire escape. John stood and swayed with Sherlock clinging to his back, grunting under the taller man's weight. For such a slim bodied man, Sherlock was certainly heavier than he appeared to be.

"Come on, come on," Sherlock panted, snatching at the elusive bar above his head. "Just a little more, John!" Snarling, John dropped to his knees, making Sherlock yelp in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "What are you doing?" the detective demanded as John readjusted his hold on him, hooking his arms under Sherlock's knees and hoisting him onto his shoulders. Sherlock knotted his hands in the doctor's sandy hair as John stood, lifting him more than high enough to grab the bar. He quickly scrambled up the ladder, kicking the extension down so that John might follow without pausing. Sherlock made his way to the second floor and forced an unlocked window open, tumbling into the dark, unoccupied room.

Down on the ground, John jumped for the falling ladder, but missed, and the springs caused it to retract back out of his reach.

"Shit!" he gasped, looking wildly around for another way inside. He briefly considered balancing on the edge of a dumpster and jumping for the ladder, but knew his chances of reaching it are slim to none. If it weren't for the fact that the killer might hear and bolt, he'd call for Sherlock to let the ladder down again, but that obviously wasn't an option either. Growling, he turned to head back to the front of the building, and never saw the heavy wooden bat coming.

~*~

Sherlock prowled through the dark rooms for about three minutes before he became painfully aware of the fact that John had not followed him into the building. Ears perked for the slightest sound, eyes straining against the darkness, he crept back into the first room and looked out the window. There was no sign of the army doctor.

"John?" he whispered, but there was no answer. Dammit. Ducking back inside, Sherlock left the second floor and headed for the first; that was always where the killer started the fire.

As he hit the landing, a voice, rough and unfamiliar called out to him, "Stop where you are!" Sherlock froze, darting his eyes around, probing the darkness. Torchlight suddenly lit upon him, brilliant and blinding. Sherlock took in what he could, unable to see. The voice was coming from approximately six feet before and to the left of him, from the sourse of the light. There was the strong smell of gasoline and other flamable liquids penetrating the air around him. The arsonist was preparing the burn the building down.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard. The police are on their way. There is no point in resisting," Sherlock said confidently, though there wasn't anyone actually coming. He'd, ah, failed to notify Lestrade of his discovery of patterns in the numbers.

"I don't care who the hell you are. You won't be nobody in a few hours," the voice snarled, the voice of a chain-smoker, gravelly and hoarse.

"Look, this doesn't have to get messy-" Sherlock began, trying to see past the bright torch light.

"Shut up! Or you'll watch him burn before joining him!" the voice dissolved into high-pitched giggling as the light swung from where it was focused on Sherlock to where John was lying on the floor, tied at the hands and feet, and soaked to the bone in what Sherlock was positive was flammable fluids. Sherlock's heart gave a horribly painful squeeze in his chest, and for a moment, he thought it was actually going to stop beating.

"John-!" Sherlock choked, unable to stop himself from taking a lurching step towards his only friend.

"Stay there! Or he'll burn right now!" Sherlock caught the sound of a lighter clicking open and the little pinpoint of flame appeared only a few feet over John's weakly stirring body.

"Shhheerr....llloock?" John moaned, trying to find the capacity in his fuzzy head to open his eyes. _Bad concussion_ , his medical training told him. He was lucky to be concious, let alone able to form words. His head hurt terribly, and his stomach was threatening to purge its contents in a rather unpleasant way.

"Stay still, John," Sherlock said, his throat feeling strangely thick as the flame from the lighter danced gleefully above his doctor.

"Shut up, I said!" the voice of the arsonist barked. "Do exactly as I say-" Sherlock supposed that the murderer was going to ask him to lie down and be docile as he was tied up and soaked in gasoline, but he didn't really give him the chance to hand out any orders. The detective dove for where he estimated the arsonist to be, and took him full in the gut with his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. There was a pained wheeze and the sharp crunch of fractured ribs as Sherlock took him down to the floor. Sitting up and turning, Sherlock found that the lighter had fallen while still lit, and John's jumper was burning. With a strangled cry, the detective leapt forward, and using the tail of his own coat, smothered the flames.

" _Burn,_ " the arsonist wheezed. "Let him burn. It's so _pretty_ when they burn. Their screams sound like the songs of angels, unearthly and unworthy for any man's ears..." After putting out the flames, Sherlock turned back to the arsonist, furious.

"Shut up!" he snarled, standing to his full height and kicking him viciously in the side. Now that he could see him, Sherlock could tell that the arsonist/murderer was somewhere in his early thirties, and unnaturally thin for his age. Half-insane with rage, Sherlock dragged the arsonist to the second floor, then threw his body out the open window. A two story fall wouldn't kill him, but would certainly render him completely incapable of running away.   
Breathing heavily, he returned down stairs to John, checking him for injuries. He texted Lestrade the address and the request for two ambulances. His phone buzzed a few moments later, but he ignored it, choosing instead to peel John's burnt jumper and t-shirt away from his skin. The injuries from the fire on his arm and side weren't bad, he would only have light scarring at worst. Sherlock gently brushed the doctor's hair out of his eyes. Even though the danger had passed, the detective still felt a horrible squeezing around his heart whenever he thought of the terrible place he'd put his John in by rushing in ahead without him.

~*~

"Good God, what happened?" Lestrade demanded of Sherlock as the EMTs loaded John and the arsonist into the separate ambulances.

"The suspect threatened to light John on fire if I moved. I tackled him. He dropped the lighter, and while I was putting out the flames, made a run for the stairs. I chased him to the second floor, where he proceeded to jump out the window." The detective inspected his nails absently as he spoke, looking completely unconcerned for the man he'd actually thrown out the window. His gaze, however, did move to John, and stayed there, as one of the EMTs shined a light in his eyes, checking for concussion.

Lestrade sighed. "How did you find him?" Sherlock smirked, and explained to him the pattern the mad arsonist had been following.

~*~

A week later, and a few days after John had been cleared and released from the hospital, Sherlock decided to change his scientific approach to how his body was responding to John and certain threats to John.

"Sherlock...." the doctor sighed with the patience of a mother teaching her child the dos and don'ts of life, "Get your arse out of here! I'm going to take a bloody shower!"

"I have the right to the amenities of the flat," Sherlock said stubbornly. "I need to use the toilet."

"Then use it after I get out!" John snapped, firmly pushing the detective out of the small loo.

"But-"

"Out!"


	4. Sherlock's Face, Meet Rug. Rug, Meet Face.

John had the strangest feeling that Sherlock was up to something. Twice this week he'd caught the detective staring at him while he read or blogged, and more than that, Sherlock had purposefully invaded his personal space over and over again.

It was when Sherlock was working on a simple case, a triple homicide, and flat out perched himself on the arm of John's chair while speaking that John finally felt like he had to say something. "-and because of the way the footprints were laid it he'd obviously been running, so he had more than enough time to get from the first scene to the second, and-" Sherlock said, placing his arse right where John was about to put his hand. 

"Sherlock!" John snapped, causing the detective's words to come to a halt. "What are you doing?"

  
"Solving the case," Sherlock sniffed. "Why?" 

"You're practically sitting on me," John pointed out, setting aside his book and scowling up at the younger man. 

"I most certainly am not. I'm sitting on your chair," Sherlock replied, dipping into technicalities shamelessly. 

"Which I am already sitting in," John scowled heavily. Sherlock scowled back. 

"I am not sitting on you," Sherlock insisted. "This is sitting on you." And then he slid off the armchair and dropped into John's lap. The doctor's mouth popped open in surprise as Sherlock settled, crossing his arms and glowering at John. "See the difference?" 

John swallowed hard, doing his best to tell his body that this was Sherlock, this was a man sitting practically right on top of his cock, and that he was most certainly not having an unexpected erection trying to make itself known. Sherlock wiggled maddeningly on his lap, and John was suddenly and almost violently torn between shoving him off and bucking his hips. Alarmed by the huge contrasts in his desires, John's bone-deep fight-or-flight instincts kicked in, and he pushed Sherlock off his lap and onto the floor, bolting from the flat. 

Sherlock laid on his face for a moment, trying to process all the things he'd just learned about John, and, more importantly, about himself. Trying to focus, he let his mind spin out of control, letting his high-functioning mentality explode with the new information. 

_John, John had a physical reaction to me on his lap, but John is straight and I am not interested in John sexually, just as I am not interested in anyone sexually, but then I've been having a lot of strange physical reactions to John, and John, he had to think about it before he pushed me off, he had to think about it, which means that there was a moment where he wanted to do something else, what was that something else? Must research futher. And me, I didn't plan to go that far, but he made me, and then sitting on him....how strange, the feelings that gave me, hot inside and I'm almost positive I started to get an erection when I moved on him, but that's strange; I haven't had an erection in nearly ten years...._

After a few minutes, Sherlock sat up and brushed miniscule bits of dust off his dark shirt, still pondering the situation. John would probably be uncomfortable around him for a few days. He should probably leave off a bit, allow the good doctor to relax so that his experiment results would be untainted by any residual awkwardness. Nodding, Sherlock stood and went into the kitchen to attend to the fingers soaking in orange juice in the fridge. 

~*~ 

John went to a pub, where he proceeded to get thoroughly and wonderfully smashed. 

The bartender raised an eyebrow as John downed beer after beer, doing his best not to dwell on the memory of Sherlock's arse rubbing across his lap, but said nothing. John scowled and continued to drink until he could barely see straight. What he was decently sure was a pretty ginger-haired woman slid into the seat next to him after a while and tried chatting him up, but John wasn't able to hold much of a coherent conversation. But that was okay, because she wasn't really interested in talking to him anyway. After a few minutes of bumbling conversation, she convinced him to go outside with her. And within a few seconds of that, they were snogging against the wall of the pub. John didn't really bother to fight it, kissing her back and groping randomly at her body. After a few minutes, he came to the startling realization that he was lacking something very important to a situation like this: arousal. This pretty redhead with ample curves was completely and totally failing to arouse him. 

"What's wrong?" she huffed against his mouth as John slowly stopped snogging her back. 

"I...I have to go," John slurred, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. He hadn't been this drunk in a long time. 

"Mmm, that sounds like a good idea," the redhead purred. "Where's your place? We could go there, have a little fun." John shook his head again, blinking. Why didn't he want to take her home, anyway? There was no reason he shouldn't. He was a healthy, red-blooded, straight-as-an-arrow man, there was no good reason as to why he shouldn't take this girl home. 

Except for his horribly embarrassing lack of physical arousal. 

"No, I've...I can't..." John said, scrambling to get his bearings in his cloudy mind. 

"It's okay, baby, just point the way," she whispered in his ear, her tongue flicking out to taste his neck. "Let me take care of you." Something terribly wrong feeling stirred in John's gut at the feeling of her licking him, and he was suddenly revolted by what was happening, but what she was doing, rubbing wantonly over his leg in a horrible mockery of what Sherlock had done earlier. God, Sherlock. John wanted Sherlock. He didn't want him physically, no, but he wanted his half-mad and slightly unreliable flatmate, his child-like and surly attitude, his bizarre experiments and his bizarre behavior. He wanted the Sherlock that was there for him things got to their very worst, like when that psycho had been holding a lighter over his helpless form. He wanted his best friend, no matter how confused he was over how his feelings for him were developing in slightly alarming ways. 

"NO!" John gasped, shoving the strange woman away and bolting away from her. A cabby honked at him as he illegally crossed the street, staggering and fighting to keep his balance in his drunken almost-panic. Sherlock. Sherlock. Get back to Sherlock. 

John stumbled his way back to 221b and slowly made his way up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's query after his health. He half-fell through the front door of the flat, and stood there panting and halfway ready to vomit. 

"John?" Sherlock was standing by the window, violin and bow in hand, looking rather confused by the doctor's rather dishevelled apperance. John didn't say anything, just stared at the tall, pale, dark-haired man looking at him with unbelievably green eyes. John felt something stir in his belly, something he had failed to feel with the strange red-headed woman. He refused to acknowledge it, refused to recognize the slow, warm feeling spreading through his chest as Sherlock set aside his violin to walk slowly towards him, deducing his evening through his apperance. 

"You had an encounter with an attractive woman at the pub while you were pissed," Sherlock observed softly. "But you didn't engage in intercouse with her." The detective looked rather puzzled, unable to understand why John had not taken the stranger up on her offer. John still said nothing, leaning heavily on the doorframe and staring at his flatmate. Sherlock tilted his head curiously to one side, unable to find an answer. 

"John," he said softly. "Why?" 

"I don't....know," John managed, before falling unconcious and collapsing forward into Sherlock's chest. 

Sherlock automatically caught the inebrieated doctor, who smelled strongly of beer and cigar smoke from the pub, and the overpowering floral odor of a strange woman's perfume. The scent made Sherlock very irritated, and that made him confused, for he'd never minded much about someone else's smell on John's skin. In fact, he'd barely noticed it before, except while filing away more information about John in his mind palace. John had his own room in Sherlock's mind palace; only Mycroft shared that honor, and John's room was bigger anyway. Sherlock grunted as he half-lifted John, pulling him over to the stairs leading up to the second bedroom. Sherlock looked up at the staircase, calculating how much effort and time it would take to get the drunken man up there without dropping him. 

Sighing, Sherlock changed direction and half-dragged John into his own room, where he laid him on the floor for a few minutes while he removed several books, his laptop, some pencils and pens, and a couple of glass beakers from his bed. After a moment's thought, he stripped the bed and replaced the sheets, finding some mostly clean ones wadded up in the bottom of his closet. Then, with a great deal of effort, Sherlock pushed and pulled and shoved and yanked John's limp body into his bed, taking off only his shoes before throwing a light blanket over his snoring back. Shaking his head, Sherlock retreated to the living room, a little perturbed by the urge to crawl into bed with the sleeping doctor. 

~*~

John woke the next day, groggy and with a terrible headache. Groaning, he tried to draw some moisture into his mouth, which felt like he was sucking on a bunch of cotton balls. Cracking his eyes open, John was very surprised to find that he was most certainly not in his own room. Fighting his spinning cranium, he sat up and peered around the dark bedroom, then tried to place it in his memory. He hadn't gone home with that redhead, had he? No, that's right, he'd backed out. He thought he'd gone home, hadn't he?  
After a few minutes of struggling brainwork, John finally realized where he was and why the room was so unfamiliar. 

He was in Sherlock's room. 

He was in Sherlock's _bed_. 

He wasn't sure it was possible, but his mouth got a little drier, and his heart started pounding, making his headache just a little worse. 

How in God's name did he end up here? 

John agonizingly crawled out of Sherlock's bed and slowly walked to the shut door, opening it to walk out into the main room. It appeared to be mid-morning, and Sherlock was sitting-lying?-on the couch upside-down, with his back on the seat, and his bum against the backrest, with his long legs hanging over the back of the couch and his head down towards the floor. He was texting, and glanced up at John when he entered. 

"There is tylenol and water in the kitchen," the detective said by way of greeting before returning to his phone. John stared at him for a moment before fetching what Sherlock described, and after the meds kicked in and cured most of his ill feelings, John went back into the main room and sank into his chair. He cleared his throat softly, trying to draw Sherlock's attention. It didn't work. The detective remained focused on his phone. John tried again. Nothing. 

"Sherlock," John said, feeling a little irritated. 

"Yes, John?" 

"Why...what did....how did I end up in your bed?" John asked, trying to phrase it in a way that wouldn't feel awkward coming out of his mouth. It didn't work. No matter how he said it, he flushed a fetching pink in the face. Sherlock looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. It was a strange sight for John, who was looking at him upside-down. 

"You were too heavy to take upstairs," Sherlock replied, as if it were obvious. 

"You could have left me on the couch," John pointed out. 

"The couch is my seat," Sherlock returned, making John sigh and roll his eyes. "Besides, I don't sleep much anyway." John grumbled unhappily at that. "You didn't sleep with the woman from last night." John sat up a little straighter, suddenly very uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. "Why not?" Sherlock put away his phone and folded his hands on his stomach, watching John from his vantage point near the floor. 

"I...she wasn't my type," John said evasively, standing with the intention of putting the kettle on. 

"Then why were you engaging in foreplay with her?" Sherlock asked. John flushed more deeply and started edging out of the room. 

"I was drunk, Sherlock," he said, as if that answered everything. 

"Why did you consume so much alcohol as to make you that incoherent anyway?" 

"Damn it, Sherlock, I don't know!" John bolted for the kitchen and filled the kettle with shaking hands. He wasn't sure why he'd turned down the redhead. He liked redheads. He liked _women_. 

_So why are you starting to get aroused around your very male flatmate?_ a voice asked in the back of his head as he turned the gas on and put the kettle on the stove. John scowled and refused to answer the voice. There was no credit to its question anyway. 

"John?" the doctor whirled around in surprise to find the detective right behind him, most certainly invading his personal space again. John backed away and used getting biscuits out of the cupboard as an excuse to put more distance between them. Sherlock sighed and left the kitchen, leaving John with a pounding heart and a slightly disappointed feeling in his chest. 

Sherlock went to his bedroom, where he pulled out his violin again. Despite the fact that his fingers were still healing, he played out his frustration on the strings, and was more than a little surprised to find that the music that came out was not that of his usual frustration. It had a more sultry undertone, a deep, humming sound that he'd never played for himself before. Puzzled, he continued playing for the next couple of hours, using the music to escape from his whirring brain, which was centered unerringly upon John Watson.


	5. Improbable

Only a few days later, the next case came in, and the men of 221b were both slightly relieved for the return of some sort of normalcy to their lives. Sherlock had been giving John space, more space then was strictly neccessary to tell the truth, but even with his incesant desire to know why he was feeling strangely around the doctor, he'd known better than to force it. John, on the other hand, was pretending as if the whole odd series of events had never happened. 

The case was about a series of strange murders (Sherlock's favorite) of a string of call-girls, which worked for various underground rings of prostitution. The victims apperared to have all died of heart attacks during sexual intercourse, but there was no reason for the young, relatively healthy girls to have suffered from cardiac arrest. 

The newest victim was found in a ratty hotel room, lying on her back on the bed. There were clear signs of sexual activity, and John stood awkwardly next to Lestrade, watching Sherlock take in the scene. 

"Hold this," Sherlock said, pulling off his long coat and tossing it at John. The doctor caught it out of reflex, and opened his mouth to protest about being used as a human coathanger, but the words died on his lips as Sherlock got on his hands and knees and started crawling around on the floor. 

"What is he doing?" Lestrade leaned over to whisper in John's ear. John shrugged, trying to keep his eyes away from Sherlock's arse, which was rather clearly outlined by his tight-fitting trousers. Sherlock wiggled his way under the bed, and John swallowed thickly. He wasn't looking, no he most certainly wasn't. 

With a satisfied grunt, Sherlock emerged from under the bed, triumphantly holding up a pair of dark navy knickers. "So obvious! No wonder there was never any semen at the scenes!" He cried, jumping up and waving the underwear in Lestrade's face. The Detective Inspector made a face and took a step back. 

"What does the victim's knickers have to do with the lack of semen?" Lestrade demanded. 

"That's just it! They're not the victims! They're the _murderer's!_ " Sherlock cried excitedly. "Our killer is a _woman!_ " The detective gave a small victory dance, gloating. "I _knew_ there was something strange about the lack of seminal fluid. You thought he was using condoms, but there was no trace of wrappers or rubbers. You thought he was cleaning up after himself but no, _no_ the murders are too messy for a killer with the mind to clean up after himself. No, our murderer is a _woman_ , and she left something behind!" Sherlock crowed, making Lestrade scowl. 

"Bag and tag the knickers," he poked his head out the door to speak to one of Anderson's lab blokes, then turned to Sherlock. "So we're looking for a woman." 

"Yes. Probably in her mid forties, taller, probably a background in running or at least participating in the underground rings," the detective nodded. "Possibly she's someone who made her living out of prostitution but got too old for most clintele's tastes in certain rings, and her pimp kicked her out." Sherlock spun around, waving his hands as he mentally made his way through his mind palace. " _Oh._ " 

"What?" John asked, recognizing the look on Sherlock's face when he'd just made a mental breakthrough. But, surprisingly, the detective shook his head. 

"Nothing. Come, John, we're done here," Sherlock strode out of the hotel, John following and still carrying his coat. 

~*~

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock paced and mumbled to himself, waving his hands around his head again as he went through his mind palace. John sat in his chair and drank his tea, watching Sherlock over the edge of the book he was pretending to read. 

"A woman, the killer is a _woman_ , dammit, there's always _something_ ," Sherlock grumbled, going over and over the facts in his mind. There was still something eluding him, something _important_ , but he couldn't get his mind around it because all his senses were fighting to focus on John, because John was staring at him, John's eyes were following him, and he couldn't _think_ straight! 

John watched Sherlock pace and mumble, lowering his book a bit to observe him. Sherlock liked to pace and go over the facts when something new came up in a case, but usually he was excited about it, not agitated. The doctor wondered what was different now. 

Something popped inside Sherlock's head as he felt John's gaze intensify just a little bit more. 

"Stop _staring at me!_ " he snarled, rounding on John so quickly that the doctor had little time to react before Sherlock was standing right in front of him, hands braced on the arms of John's chair. The detective was leaning down far enough that his nose was only about an inch away from John's, and after a moment of staring at each other, something softened in Sherlock's face. 

John's heart was pounding. He hadn't been expecting Sherlock to turn on him like that, like some sort of wild thing backed into a corner by his eyes alone. But as the harsh look on his face faded, and Sherlock raised his hand a little, as if to touch John's face. The doctor subconciously trembled a bit at the thought of Sherlock touching him in a way that wasn't normal between them ( _Don't push, Sherlock; You were in the way, John! or Wait for me, Sherlock; Take my hand, John_ ). 

Sherlock felt that curling heat in his gut again, the blooming, spreading warmth that he didn't quite understand but believed was somehow connected to John. He felt the physical urge to touch the doctor, to stroke his face, examine his eyes and nose and mouth and cheekbones, to memorize every bit of his head, his neck and shoulders and everything down from there. Sherlock knew so much about John, but there was endless speculation when it came to the ex-soldier's physique. He knew he was strong, and relativly in shape, but did that mean he was muscled or meerly toned? Was the hair on his legs as fair and thick as that on his arms? 

And why did Sherlock even want to know? Was it just his insaitable curiosity to _know_ everything about anything that interested him? 

Or was it something to do with the hot feeling that was suddenly rushing lower as he noticed the way John's pupils were starting to dilate wider, that his breath was coming a little shorter and faster, and a small tremble ran through the doctor's body as Sherlock raised his hand closer to John's face? 

The heat in Sherlock's belly suddenly filled his groin, causing a reaction that the detective had never, ever expected. His mouth fell open in surprise, several emotions running through him all at once ( _shock surprise disbelief arousal more shock anger denial_ ). Unable to process and deal with it, Sherlock bolted for his bedroom. 

John sat in his chair, a little bewildered. The two sudden changes in Sherlock's behavior and mood had shocked and surprised him, catching him completely off-guard. The detective had gone from agitated pacing to face-to-face fury to incredulous shock and some other strange emotion John hadn't had time to recognize, to full retreat, hiding in his bedroom. 

What the hell was going on? 

~*~

Sherlock hid in his room for the rest of the day, playing his violin. He needed to get his thoughts in order, and composing was the best thing for that. He pulled the bow slowly back and forth across the strings with his eyes closed, using the long notes to clear his thoughts a little bit and play out what he was feeling. The instrument sang under his fingers and bow, playing out a tune that was unfamiliar to Sherlock, but also tantalizingly close to something he played quite often. It was the song he played when he was thinking of John, particularly after they'd had a row. But there was a deeper, darker tone to this melody that made the burning feeling in Sherlock's belly intensify. 

He played for over an hour, fighting to get all the strange emotions out, but he couldn't; they refused to leave, instead only growing stronger the longer he played. And, for some bizarre reason, the more he played while thinking of John and all the things he'd wanted to do, all the places on the doctor he'd wanted to touch, the more heat that built in his lower belly, sliding lower to slowly engorge his cock until he was so hard it _hurt_. 

Sherlock finally stopped playing, breaking the song off with a sharp, strangled-sounding note, lowering the violin and bow. He was panting as if he'd been playing for days, weeks, even. Setting his instrument on the bed, Sherlock gingerly palmed his crotch through his trousers and winced at the shot of desire and almost-pain. Shaking his head, he processed all the facts tumbling around inside his brilliant brain. 

_John, something about John, making me play strange music, making me feel strange things. Strange music, strange things, becoming aroused, both when looking at John so closely and thinking about his body, and while away from him but still thinking about him, all I know and all I don't know, John, John, John._

Sherlock whirled around and entered his mind palace, heading for the room that held everything he knew about John. 

_John Hamish Watson. Born March 31st, 41 years of age. Ex-soilder, army doctor, brave, adventerous, flirtatous without meaning to be, honest, loyal, straight._

Sherlock paused as the last characteristic made something in his chest thrum in a way that was an almost-pain. He frowned and delved deeper. 

_Straight. Dates women, but rarely makes it past the third date. Blames me. Defends sexuality just enough to cause others to tease and taunt him about secretly being gay. All the porn on his laptop is of women and men, and my deductions tell me that he's had no experience sexually with any men before, only women. Approximately nine partners, surprisingly low for someone of his age, single status and what I've observed of his libido. He masturbates at least once a day, sometimes up to three if his current girlfriend isn't moving as fast as he'd like._

Sherlock's frown deepened. 

_As for my own reactions....hmm, this is strange. I haven't deduced myself since the Baskerville case. Strange emotions, feelings of heat and warmth in my lower abdomen, and the beginnings of an erection when close to John. Not to mention the actual erection I gained while trying to compose my thoughts on my violin._

Sherlock waded through the strange sensations and emotions and bodily reactions he'd been experiencing until he came up with one singular, horrifying conclusion that he most certainly didn't want to accept. 

_When all conclusions that are impossible are eliminated, whatever remains, no matter how improbible, must be the truth._

Sherlock emerged from his mind palace and immedietly fell on his arse, grabbing handfuls of his hair and staring blankly into space. 

It couldn't be. It just _couldn't_ be. 

It wasn't _possible._

Sherlock didn't have _feelings_ like this. Sherlock Holmes did _not_ fall victim to things such as this, especially not this easily, and without having even _noticed_ until it was too late. 

_When all conclusions that are impossible are eliminated, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

_Conclusion:_

_Sherlock Holmes is in love with John Watson._


	6. Sorqy

John Watson was used to coming home to strange things in the flat he shared with the more than slightly eccentric Sherlock Holmes. He accepted that any day of the week he comes home from a normal shift at the clinic, he may more than likely come face-to-face with something as benign as the free-roaming, half-plucked chickens from a couple months ago, to the full-scale, catastophic destruction of the entire flat due to a failed experiment with _(illegal, Sherlock!)_ explosives in the kitchen.

But even that mentality about his flatmate and his odd behaviors could never have ever prepared John for what he would face after he returned home on this particular day.

The flat was empty. That much was not strange, for Sherlock had a case that he had yet to summon John's help on. 

John made himself a cup of tea, ate a couple of biscuits, then headed for the bathroom, intent on a hot shower before relaxing in his chair with a good book. It was pleasantly quiet in the flat without Sherlock experimenting on this or that in the kitchen, playing the violin loudly in his room or out in the main area, or even sulking on the couch. 

He was about halfway through his shower when he heard the front door burst open with an almighty _BANG_ , making John jump and nearly slip. He held still and listened intently, and heard loud footsteps making their way towards the bathroom. 

"Sherlock?" John yelped when the bathroom door was flung open without ceremony, displaying a dark-haired detective splattered from head to toe in crimson. 

"John," the younger man replied, blinking at him through the fogged shower curtain. Sherlock couldn't see much of John, but he could see his basic outline, a few sparse details, and that he was, obviously, completely naked. "I require use of the shower." 

"Bloody hell, get out!" John yelled, placing both hands over his crotch instinctively. 

"I am exceedingly uncomfortable John, and do not wish to wait while you finish. Kindly either remove yourself from the tub or move over," Sherlock started stripping, peeling off his blood-soaked clothes and throwing them on the floor. John gaped at him, unable to believe that this was actually happening to him. 

"For the love of God, Sherlock, just hold on a minute!" John cried as the detective threw open the curtain and started to climb into the shower. The doctor firmly shut his eyes and tried to maneuver his way out of the tub blindly, but stumbled and nearly fell. 

"You have showered with other men before, John, in the army," Sherlock pointed out as he caught the fumbling doctor, preventing what would have been a painful faceplant on the bathroom floor. John's eyes popped open without his permission at the feel of Sherlock's arms around his body, the sticky blood rubbing over both of their skin. 

Sherlock fought against the heat that exploded in his gut when John's bare body fell against his own, struggling in vain against the inevitable erection. John, however, was refusing to look lower than the detective's chin, gaping at him. 

"That was _different!_ " he cried indignantly. "Why are you covered in blood?" 

"Side case. Simple murder. Wounds inflicted post mordem, confirmed by a simple experiment," Sherlock explained, as if he weren't half-in and half-out of the tub, holding his flatmate in his arms with both of them as naked as the day they were born. 

Giving up his modesty in favor of escape, John released his hold on his privates and pushed away from Sherlock, bolting from the bathroom. But Sherlock had plenty of time to answer all his questions about John's body. 

John ran up the stairs to his room, taking them two at a time in order to get to his room as fast as possible. His face was burning, and his breathing was labored like he'd just run ten miles. He burst into his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him, locking it (even though Sherlock would pick the lock if he really wanted to) behind him. 

Naked and still wet from the shower, John shivered, though not because he was cold. 

John covered his face with his hands, trying to block out the look he'd seen on his flatmate's face when his eyes had opened in surprise at feeling Sherlock's arms around him. 

_Hunger._

John trembled again, trying to find any possible explination as to why the detective had looked at him like he'd wanted to drag the doctor to the floor of the bathroom and ravage him within an inch of his life. Besides the explination that Sherlock had wanted to, in fact, do just that. 

Downstairs, Sherlock soaped up thoroughly in the shower, unable to help feeling a little frustrated. He had not expected John to be in the bathroom when he'd returned home, but the opportunity had been too tempting to pass by. And truly, he'd gained a magnificent amount of new knowledge about John's physique, but he'd also torn a deep wound of fear and mistrust in the doctor's psyche, which had been broadcasted loud and clear in his hasty retreat. 

The detective was, for once, unsure whether John would tolerate his misbehavior. 

~*~

John did not speak to Sherlock for over a week. In fact, Sherlock did not see John more than twice in that entire week. The detective, for once, took the hint, and kept his distance. He also went out of his way to make sure no bizarre experiments ended up in the fridge or microwave or in the kettle, trying to make peace as best he knew how. But nothing seemed to work. When Sherlock attempted to speak to John, the doctor did not even acknowledge that he had ever spoken, and removed himself from the detective's presence shortly afterwards. 

At the end of the week, Sherlock was about to boil over with a strange multitude of emotions, and had no idea what to do about it. Part of him wanted to yell at John until he paid attention to him again, another part wanted to apologize to him again (twice in a manner of months, good lord) and another part wanted to grab him and...and...something! The detective had no idea what to do. For once in his life, he was utterly lost. According to his deductions and the logic of his mind, John would react badly to any and all of his urges. But what Sherlock failed to realize was that he was dealing with matters of the heart, not of the mind. Matters of emotion and love were far beyond his comfort zone, quite far beyond the reach of reason and logic and science. And in the wonderful brain of Sherlock Holmes, logic and science had such a firm reign on him, the sudden invasion of his love for John was turning his entire world upside down. 

~*~

It was not until Sherlock made a break in the case of the dead call-girls that the tear in John's psyche was overcome. 

Like always, the detective had come across something that triggered the explosive realization of who did what and why, and rushed off without alerting Lestrade or anyone else as to where he was going. Usually, he had John with him, but John was at the clinic, and still not speaking to him, so Sherlock went off on his own. 

The murderer of the prostitutes was waiting for him. 

He found her in a nice, but not glamerous hotel not far from the original crime scene, sitting on the veranda of her room, smoking a cigarette. As Sherlock had predicted, she was in her mid to late forties, and had been quite beautiful, once-upon-a-time. 

"Madame," Sherlock said softly. "The game is over." The woman rolled her head along the back of her chair to look at him. She had soft, curling hair that had been a nice shade of somewhere between cornsilk and champagne that had darkened with grey, and dark eyes that seemed to dance in her face. Her lips, wrapped around her cigarette, pulled into a small smile. 

"So it is," she said softly. "I knew it wouldn't last long. But they deserved it, you know. After Charles took me off the cars and the street corner, he put me to work managing. But the girls...they turned him against me. Threw me out on my arse, after years of service and loyalty to the ring. Like I was _garbage._ " The woman rose out of her chair and slowly walked over to Sherlock. She had a 9mm pistol in her hand. "I'm sorry," she said softly, pointing it at Sherlock. "I never really hurt any of them, you know. A little aphrodisiac in their drink, then they rode an orgasm all the way to hell. And I wish I could do the same for you. You're quite the looker. But I'm afraid we haven't the time. After all, you're probably dialing the police in your pocket, aren't you?" Sherlock smiled at her. 

"No," he said, just as softly as she. "Just a friend. Saying good-bye." 

~*~

**_Sorqy -SH_ **

John felt something cold trickle down his spine as he read the text from Sherlock. The detective never misspelled anything. The misplaced "q," one click short of the proper "r" spoke volumes upon volumes to John. 

_Sherlock._

John bolted from his office without even an explination to Sarah, grabbing his laptop in its case as he went. 

"Where to, mate?" the cabby asked as John piled into the back of the cab. 

"I'll tell you in a minute," John opened his laptop and booted up the program that tracked Sherlock's phone. It was something he'd insisted on after the Study in Pink case. As the program locked on, John snapped off an address to the cabby. Throwing a large handful of notes over the seat, he demanded, "Get me there five minutes ago!" 

~*~

"How sweet," the woman said, tilting her head to one side, observing him. "But unlikely. You're not the type to waste your last message on a mere friend. A lover, one would think. But I've read your website, you see. The Science of Deduction. Facinating. But you're cold. Your heart is an empty cavity. Incapable of love." 

Sherlock felt slightly weary. "A thought I once shared. Sherlock pulled out his phone and looked down at the message he had sent three minutes ago. He frowned. He'd misspelled. Ridiculously, that irked him. 

"Alas, I believe we are out of time. You see, even though I knew I wouldn't remain anonymous for long, I still have little desire to spend the rest of my life in a prison. So, Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid our little chat must come to an end. Go out on the veranda," she waved the gun in a small gesture, and Sherlock did as she instructed, as slowly as possible. "Up on the railing. I'm going to give you a choice."

~*~

John hated the woman behind the nice desk in front of him. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but he didn't say to which room he was heading," she said, looking positively terrified of the ex-army doctor, who looked ready to implode. 

"THEN FIND OUT!" he roared, sending her scuttling away to review security tapes at high speed. Less than a minute later, she emerged to stammer, "R-room 398!" Sending John bolting for the lift. 

He pressed the button for the sixth floor repeatedly, even after the machine had slowly started to move. 

" _Come on!_ " John screamed as the box creaked its way upwards. After what seemed like an eternity, the lift doors slid open to reveal a long hallway, which John sprinted down, looking for room 398. 

~*~

"You have two choices," the woman said, walking closer to where Sherlock was perched precariously on the railing. "You may jump of your own free will, falling until you die on impact upon the ground, or I will shoot you in the groin, where you may fall to your death in excruciating pain." Sherlock's eyes widened. 

"You're much more sadistic than I first deduced you to be," he said slowly. 

"You forgot to factor in emotions, Mr. Holmes," the woman smiled coldly. "I really...truly... _hate._..men. Make your choice." 

~*~

The door was unlocked, thank God. John flung it open, drawing his gun out from where he kept it tucked in the back of his pants. So used to being called by Sherlock to a dangerous case, he never went any where without it now. 

The scene which met John's eyes was horrifying. 

A woman with greying hair and once-pretty features was pointing a gun at Sherlock. But that wasn't even the worst of it. The detective was standing, rather insecurely at that, on the railing of the veranda, the light breeze tugging at his coat and scarf and curls, as if enticing him into jumping. 

At the sound of the door opening, the woman jerked reflexively, and a bullet whizzed towards Sherlock as she turned to face John. 

John's bullet took her in her left cheekbone, and she never knew what hit her. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, gave a loud cry of pain as the first shot hit him in the side, knocking him off balance. John lunged forward, bounding across the room and over the murderer's body as Sherlock began to fall. 

**_"SHERLOCK!"_ **


	7. The Molly Plague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...it's, uh...2:40 AM as I'm finishing this up and about to post this...I'm exhausted right now. Y.Y Way past my bedtime. I hope you all appreciate my efforts. =.= Let me know what you think with a comment. I love comments. Now, I'm off to dreamland.

John felt as though he'd just ripped his lungs out of his mouth with the force of his howl.

His feet pushed hard off the carpet of the hotel room, flinging his body forward, hands reaching, straining, grasping at nothing, nothing, nothing but air and emptyness....

....until....

_...coat sleeve. Hand. Arm._

_Sherlock._

"For the love of God, don't let go!" John screamed, clinging to the hanging detective with all his might.

"...John...." the call was weak, strained. The doctor was halfway over the railing himself, wrapping one leg around the bars to keep them both from falling to their deaths. John's hands knotted in Sherlock's sleeve and around his thin wrist, gripping to the point of bruising the fair skin. Sherlock's fingers were wrapped loosely around John's wrist, barely holding on. "Hurt...."

"I know, Sherlock, I know, just hold on, and we'll get you to a hospital," John gasped as he slipped a little, causing Sherlock to drop and bob alarmingly.

"No...hurt you. I hurt you," Sherlock said weakly. "I hurt you."

"What? No! Goddammit, Sherlock, we can discuss this later!" John cried, hauling on the detective's arm but making no progress.

"John....I hurt you with....feelings..." Sherlock mumbled, but John wasn't really listening. He wanted to try for better leverage to pull his friend up, but he was terrified that if he made one wrong move, Sherlock would fall. His injuried shoulder began to burn, and John snarled in defiance of the pain.

"Come on, come on, dammit, don't you dare give up on me now!" John gasped as he started to feel Sherlock slide from his grasp.

".....John...I..." Sherlock said, not looking up from where he was staring at the ground between his dangling feet six stories below.

"SHUT UP!" John roared, pulling on Sherlock's arm and just barely hanging on. His shoulder was screaming, and John was desperate to hold on. At this rate, Sherlock was going to slip from his grasp, and John might as well pitch himself over, too. His life would have no meaning without the half-mad detective.

Shock made his blood run cold for a moment.

_My life holds no meaning without Sherlock._

_No meaning without Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

_Sherlock!_

"Sherlock!" John screamed his flatmate's name as he hauled on the dead-weight at the ends of his arms. "Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock! SHERLOCK!" John kept screaming, chanting his best friend's name at the top of his voice as he pulled with everything he had, pouring every ounce of his determination, stubborness, loyalty, and terror at losing the meaning in his life into pulling that ingenius bastard over the railing.

Sherlock rose a foot. Another.

And then John's shoulder positively _HOWLED_ in agony, and he felt something, something _important_ rip and tear and break inside his shoulder, and suddenly, that arm didn't work anymore.

Sherlock dropped alarmingly as John nearly lost his grip, and the doctor hysterically clutched at the railing with his legs and bent himself in half, clamping onto the metal as hard as he possibly could. His entire body trembled, shuddering and shaking under the strain. His right arm hung limp and useless, and his left was wrapped around Sherlock's, who was sliding through his grip with every second that passed.

"John....let go," Sherlock raised his head to look up at his doctor. Shockingly, his unbelievably green eyes were bright with tears. "Let go of me, John. _Please_." A couple of tears escaped from his left eye, streaking down his cheek. "For your own sake, _let me go!"_ John opened his mouth, shocked and unable to believe that Sherlock would ask that of him.

Something hot spilled from his own eyes as his vision blurred. The detective looked equally shocked as a few drops of clear liquid dropped onto his cheek, his lip, into his mouth, as John, too, started to cry.

" _No._ " John's voice was soft, broken, and choked with tears. Sherlock's mouth fell open a little more as John raised his head, glaring at him. "I won't! I won't, _I won't let go!_ You couldn't PAY me to let go! I'd let the world burn and London fall and the Queen be eaten by beetles before I let go!" John continued to list things, terrible things, he'd let happen before he'd let Sherlock go. And while doing so, he _pulled_.

Shockingly, Sherlock, slowly but surely, rose, inch my inch, closer to the edge of the railing. After a few minutes, John's list decended into hysterical, agonized babbling, but it kept him going, kept him pulling, until he was standing on the veranda, and Sherlock was slipping over the railing, and then they were falling in a crumpled heap, tangled in each other's limbs.

Silence reigned for a few moments, ringing in their ears.

And then John let out a small gasp in pain as something in his mangled arm twinged.

"John?" Sherlock whispered. "John, are you....stupid question. Never mind. I think....ouch...I may be able to call for help." Avoiding use of his bloodied side, Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Lestrade. "Hello? Ah, well....I found the murderer. _NO,_ I didn't...well, yes, I did go off without telling anyone....No, not even John...but...yes, but....dammit Lestrade! John's with me now, and I'm afraid we both need to go to the hospital! What? Oh....no, she'll be needing to go to the morgue, I'm afraid. Yes. Yes. Of course." After giving the DI instructions as to where they were located, Sherlock hung up and laid his head back down. He felt something weakly stir in the pit of his stomach as he realized he was lying on top of John, his head pillowed on his chest. Sherlock scowled deeply, and the feeling faded, but didn't go away.

"Sherlock?" John said softly, his voice hoarse from all the screaming and babbling.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock raised his head slightly to look up at the doctor.

John punched him in the face with his good arm.

The blow was weak after the strain on John's body, but it still dazed Sherlock, who looked at John reproachfully after regaining his composure.

"And what, may I ask, was that for?" the detective asked distainfully.

"For...being such an arse. And for going off without me. And for getting yourself in such a bloody spot. Again. And for not texting me earlier, you moron," John scowled weakly, his face pale with pain. "And...apology accepted." Sherlock's mouth fell open as John sighed, falling into a light unconciousness.

"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed. He bit his lip indecisively, then decided that after all that had just happened, he didn't give a single flying fuck if John remembered what he was about to do. So Sherlock stretched out his neck a little, and gently, softly, placed a light kiss on John's cheek.

~*~

When Lestrade arrived, both men had fallen unconcious from pain and bloodloss, and were quickly rushed to the hospital.

Sherlock had taken a bullet to his lower right side, between the bottom of his ribcage and his hip, which had luckily missed all major organs and arteries. He was released...well, actually, Sherlock _escaped_ the hospital after two days.

John, on the other hand, had torn his coraco-clavicular ligament, and his transverse humeral ligament, causing tremendous amounts of damage to his shoulder. He was in the hospital for three weeks before he, too, finally snuck out and returned to 221b in a sling. It would be several months before John had full use of his arm again.

The case was closed, and John blogged about it one-handed, and Sherlock went back to playing his violin after he had healed sufficiently to stand and hold the instrument for more than a few minutes.

There were a few cases, a few chases, and a few more minor injuries. Before they knew it, six months had passed since the near-deadly veranda incident.

Sherlock held his growing love for John in, though sometimes, he thought he would simply explode from wanting...something, he still didn't know what. John noticed that Sherlock tended to invade his personal space much more than before, and liked to barge into the bathroom while he was showering to use the toilet, and often the doctor caught the detective staring at him from over a forgotten experiment or case file. Too John, it was bizarre, and a bit alarming, but after a few weeks, grew accustomed to it, and gently reminded Sherlock to go back to what he was doing. John started to feel this strange pressure under his skin whenever he spent too much time too close to Sherlock, this buzzing, tingling feeling that spread from the top of his head to his toes, eventually drawing back and pooling in his groin until he was half-hard and trying desperatly to get it to _go away._

It was during one uncomfortable case where John and Sherlock were crammed inside a small closet in a suspect's bedroom as said suspect rooted around for what Shelock had in his pocket that one such buzzing tingling feeling started in John's crotch.

_Oh, for God's sake, not now_ , John thought despairingly as Sherlock shifted impatiently from foot to foot, inadvertently passing his back and arse repeatedly over the front of John's jeans. Slowly, fighting it every second, John started to get hard.

Sherlock was peering out the crack in the doors, shifting around impatiently as he waited for the suspect ( _late twenties, panicked, hurried, meeting someone? Looking for film canister_ ) to give up and leave. He estimated it would be about three minutes more in the cramped closet before the suspect bolted. Sherlock shifted again, and stilled when he heard a soft sound from John, something that sounded suspiciously like....a moan?

Sherlock's heart suddenly kicked itself into high gear, beating at around ten times its normal pace. His mouth grew unnaturally dry, and he had the sudden urge to press himself back against John in the most wanton way. He struggled against the impulse, but couldn't resist wiggling around a bit more, and was rewarded with an involuntary gasp.

"Sherlock," John hissed, grabbing his hips. "Stop moving!"

"Why?" the detective challenged in a breath.

"Because you're _noisy!_ " John breathed, and Sherlock realized that he was, in fact, breathing a little more loudly than he should be. He quickly covered his mouth, surprised to find that he was quickly becoming aroused, cramped in such close quarters with John. Dammit. Unable to stop himself, he wriggled a little bit, back against what he was positive was John's engorged member.

"John," Sherlock huffed as the suspect ran from the room, headed for the front door. "John, I..."

"Not now, Sherlock! Dammit, is he gone?"

"Yes," Sherlock nearly moaned, and John felt a shock of heat in his already unbelievable arousal. "God, John. I...I..."

"Not now!" John gasped, shoving at Sherlock until they tumbled out of the closet. John ran from the room, following the suspect, and Sherlock heaved a sigh. John had certainly been aroused by Sherlock's actions, but had been shocked and frightened by them. Dammit. Dammit seven times over! What was he supposed to _do?_ He couldn't even concerntrate on his work anymore, he was so obsessed with John!

Sherlock heaved himself up and ran after his doctor, trying to find a way in his high-functioning brain to solve his current predicament.

~*~

When Christmas rolled around, Sherlock and John found themselves coerced into attending a party at the Yard, at the insistence of Lestrade, who threatened to have them escorted by Donovan and Anderson if they didn't attend of their own free will.

"This is pointless," Sherlock sneered as they wandered through the party, wishing he was at home like last year, with Mrs. Hudson, John, Lestrade, and perhaps Molly again, if she could muster up the courage to return after the last fiasco.

"Cheer up, Sherlock," John said, sipping on a large glass of spiked eggnog. "It's nice to get out of the flat for something other than work."

"We went to dinner at Angelo's a few days ago," Sherlock pointed out sullenly.

"Listen to you two, bickering like an old married couple!" Lestrade cried, appearing suddenly behind them with a crooked party hat on his head. "No wonder everybody thinks you're shagging!" John blushed deeply and Sherlock stiffened. John muttered something about snacks and quickly escaped the awkwardness, leaving the emotionally-impaired detective to fend for himself.

"Good evening to you, too, Lestrade," Sherlock said stiffly. He deduced that the DI had been drinking for a few hours now, and was thoroughly buzzed, probably due to the fact that he was once again suspicious of his wife's infedelity.

"Aww, loosen up, Holmes," Lestrade scowled at him. "What's got you so wound up, eh?" Sherlock did not answer, rolling his eyes and looking away in an attempt to end the conversation. Instead, he ended up catching sight of John chatting with a curvy blonde by the refreshments table. Sherlock quickly observed their postures and facial expresions ( _single, early thirties, flirtatious, been drinking, more than willing to sneak off for a quickie/polite but interested, smiling and laughing as she points out the mistletoe above them_ ). The detective felt a sudden burst of jealousy as John leaned in and kissed the blonde, smiling afterwards and continuing to chat.

"Ooh, possessive, are we," Lestrade chuckled. "I had no idea you actually were in _love_ with the man, Sherlock." The detective jumped at the DI's spot-on assumption.

"I'm not in love with him," Sherlock denied snootily.

"Of course you're not. You're not just glaring daggers at that girl he just kissed because you don't like her haircut," Lestrade smirked. "If you really want to get things rolling, get him under the mistletoe, Holmes. He can't say no to you then." Sherlock scowled and stalked away, not wanting to take advice from Lestrade, whose marriage was about to fall apart. But....Sherlock looked around to see John reluctantly accepting a large, wet kiss from a male officer, who laughed uproariously at the expression on the doctor's face. Sherlock froze. John had allowed the other man to kiss him, despite his discomfort. Would he allow Sherlock the same? And even if he did, would he still have that awkwardly unhappy look on his face? Pain bloomed in Sherlock's chest at the very thought.

"Stop looking like a kicked puppy and get in there before you miss your chance!" Lestrade barked behind him, shoving him forward. Sherlock stumbled through a few people before finally crashing right into John.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" the doctor looked at him concernedly. "It's not like you to fumble about like that."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said stiffly, glancing up. Sure enough, there was mistletoe right above them. John followed his gaze, then gave a small gasp.

"Oh," the doctor huffed, blushing deeply. "Well, uh....I...I need to..."

"Tradition, Watson!" Lestrade yelled. "You kissed Goldberg! Surely you can give your best mate a quick peck!" Several people turned to look, and even Sherlock felt spots of color appear on his cheeks. _Damn that Lestrade!_

John continued to mumble, trying to slide away, but Sherlock, in a moment of panic at the thought of losing his chance of kissing John, grabbed him and yanked him back. There was a little more force behind it then he meant, and John crashed into his chest. The two men blinked at each other for a minute.

"Oh.. _.oh,_ " John gasped. "Sherlock, you...you _want_ to kiss me?" The doctor looked around awkwardly. Lots of people were staring, and a couple were starting to root them on with a chant of _"Kiss, kiss, kiss!"_ Sherlock, unable to say anything, licked his lips drily. Hopefully he wouldn't be total rubbish at this. He'd never kissed anyone before. If he didn't bollocks it up too badly, maybe John would be willing to kiss him again someday.

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmured, gently trading the hand on John's arm for a gentle stroke of the doctor's face. "I do." John flushed explosively, and bit his lip, looking around.

"I-I don't know-I mean, I-..."

"Shh," Sherlock whispered, his heart pounding. "You're not opposed to kissing me, John. I can tell." A crooked smile appeared on the detective's face. "Just give me this. Just this one."

John stared up at him, hardly breathing, and nodded. He reached up and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him down and shutting his eyes.

"Okay, Sherlock," John whispered. "Kiss me." The detective's breath caught, and he leaned down, inches away from their lips meeting.

And then Molly happened.

"John! Sherlock! Hi!" she cried, appearing next to them joyfully and making them leap apart in shock and guilt, like two teenagers caught snogging.

"Hullo, Molly," John said awkwardly, noticing the smile slip off her pretty face. Sherlock was giving her his iciest glare, and she wilted beneath it.

"Oh...I...did something wrong, didn't I?" she said soflty, clutching her glass of eggnog tightly.

"Clearly," Sherlock said coldly before turning around and stalking off. Damn that woman! She was a plague! A useful plague at times, but a plague nonetheless!

"I'm sorry, Molly," John sighed, running a hand back through his hair as Sherlock stormed away. His heart was still racing from the near-kiss, and Molly looked absolutley crushed.

"I can never do anything right around him," she said mournfully. "I'm even dating now, did you know? I gave up on him, I mean, it's totally obvious he's not interested in me...but I can't seem to let go, you know?" John had a sudden, horrible memory surge of that day on the veranda. 

_Let go, John. Let go._

_No. No! Not for anything! My Sherlock, mine, not giving him up. Sherlock is mine! I won't let go! I won't lose him!_

"Yeah," John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as Molly wandered away again, still looking a little upset. "I know."

~*~

Sherlock sulked in a corner, not wanting to speak to anyone. He'd had John right there, only _inches_ away from sharing his first kiss with him, of experiencing the physical side to this love that seemed to consume more of him daily. And then Molly. Bloody Molly! He wanted to strangle her right then. Nursing a small vendetta, he allowed Lestrade to pull him back into the festivities after a while, though he remained surly and uncooperative for the rest of the night.

John, on the other hand, religiously avoided anymore mistletoe, and didn't go near Sherlock again until nearly two o'clock, when they helped an absolutely smashed Greg Lestrade into a cab home.

After that, they got their own cab home, and endured an awkward tension all the way there. It got worse.

When they got to 221b, they found that Mrs. Hudson, in a fit of holiday cheer, had hung mistletoe all over the entry way and even in their flat.

Standing beneath multiple bunches, Sherlock and John looked at each other, nerves and tension building up inside of each of them.

Finally, it was John that cracked.

" _Dammit!"_ he snarled, taking a big step forward, grabbing Sherlock by the lapels of his coat, and yanking him down into a hard, furious kiss.


	8. Christmas

It hurt. 

A _lot._

Their teeth clashed together rather painfully at first, and then John bit him! He _bit_ Sherlock! 

The detective only stood there for a moment, feeling rather like a gaping fish, before something hot and primal burst in his belly and he instinctively grabbed John and yanked him closer. It was clumsy and messy and by no means anywhere close to sweet, but Sherlock devoured John's mouth hungrily nonetheless, determined to make the most of this moment, which he was positive was about to shatter any second now. 

A low growl bubbled in Sherlock's throat as John grabbed the detective's lower lip between his teeth again, pulling it into his mouth and sucking hard. He tasted blood, and knew he'd broken the skin. He didn't really care. The doctor's stomach knotted and contorted itself inside his gut as Sherlock suddenly pulled him completely flush against his body, and John gasped at the feeling of the rock-hard bulge in the detective's trousers. Sherlock took advantage of the doctor's surprise and thrust his tongue into his mouth, tasting, exploring, wanting to know all that he could about his John. John gave a soft cry, and Sherlock jerked his hips forward involuntarilly, and they stumbled until John's back hit the wall. Sherlock ground against John, delighted to feel that the doctor was also highly aroused, his erection pressing insistently at Sherlock's hip and thigh. 

John's brain felt like it was about to explode. He was snogging Sherlock. God, the world had gone insane. 

Sherlock's arms wrapped tightly around John's waist, pulling him impossibly closer, rocking his hips insistently against the doctor in his arms. He had no idea where to go from here, but he was most certainly enjoying the friction against his swollen cock. John moaned softly into his mouth, and Sherlock shuddered, abandoning John's mouth to explore his cheek, jaw, and throat, kissing, licking, tasting, cataloguing detail after detail, from the flavor to an approximate of how many hours it had been since John had shaved. 

"John..." Sherlock groaned against his flatmate's throat, biting down and sucking out of instinct. The strangled moan that he was rewarded with was well worth the effort. 

_Oh, GOD._ John struggled not to let himself be swept away by the intensity of being the focus of all of Sherlock's brainpower and staggering charisma, knowing that with every second that passed, the detective was learning more and more about him, what he liked, and what he loved. Despite the fact that John had rarely been bitten by his female lovers, the feeling of Sherlock's teeth and tongue against his skin made him buck and cry out as the detective left a line of bright bruises along his neck. 

"John, I...I want...I need..." Sherlock gasped, releasing John's throat to stare into his bright blue-grey eyes. "I don't...oh, John." Sherlock reached up and gently touched the doctor's face, stroking from temple to jaw. John felt a shiver trickle down his spine, and he felt as though they were teetering on the edge of something, something huge and amazing, and above all, terrifying. And for once in his life, John felt as though he'd come up against something he had absolutely no chance of beating. The thought made him panic. 

Sherlock's face softened as he watched the fear and animal-terror encroach on the edge of John's mind, written clearly in his face. Gently, he leaned down and placed a small, soft kiss on John's lips, sweet and almost heart-breaking, and whispered, "Go." 

John wasted no time bolting for the stairs, and Sherlock released him, feeling that old ache swell in his chest as he watched the man he loved run away from him. The detective sighed, leaning against the wall and staring up at the ceiling, where he could hear John heading right for his bedroom. Sherlock gently touched his mouth with his fingertips, feeling the tingling, kiss-swollen evidence of one thoroughly snogged pair of lips. He was, in fact, bleeding from John's aggressive nipping, and sighed as he slowly made his way up to the flat, trying to remember where he'd put the disinfectant and cotton balls after his last experiment. 

~*~

John lay face down on his bed, face smashed into a pillow, and half-intent on smothering himself. 

He'd kissed Sherlock. 

Bloody hell, he'd gotten half-way to _shagging_ Sherlock up against that wall! And he hadn't even really been drinking at Lestrade's bloody party! John groaned in despair. He wasn't gay! He wasn't! He liked women! And Sherlock was no woman, that was for sure. The throbbing erection that had been pressed insistently into his abdomen proved _that_ beyond a shadow of a doubt. God, the fact that he himself had been inches from coming in his pants as Sherlock had assaulted his neck and throat was bad for his case of John Watson Is Most Definetly Not Gay. In fact, John was about ninty eight percent sure that if Sherlock hadn't started losing momentum, wanting to do more but unsure of how to proceed, he would have more than happily rounded all four bases with the man right there in the entry. 

More to make himself feel better than anything, John allowed himself to flop and flail his limbs in the ridiculous impression of a three-year-old's temper tantrum, unable to believe that things had gone this far. He wasn't gay, Goddammit! He was not! 

But no matter what he told himself, he had to admit that those few minutes of desperate kissing with Sherlock had been the best of his life. 

~*~

John hunkered down in his room the next day, despite the fact that it was Christmas, and he could hear Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and possibly even Lestrade puttering around downstairs. Sherlock was playing Christmas carols on his violin, and after a little while, he heard Mrs. Hudson come up to his room. 

"Dear? Are you feeling alright?" his landlady called, knocking gently on his door. "There are a few guests here. You should come down. It's only polite." Grumbling, John got up, pulled on a green turtleneck to hide the evidence of the night before, and allowed Mrs. Hudson to shepherd him downstairs. 

Sherlock was standing by the window, back to everyone as he played O Come All Ye Faithful, with Lestrade, Molly, and surprisingly Stamford seated around in the living room and kitchen. Mrs. Hudson bustled off, serving tea and biscuits and cocoa as the weather outside steadily grew darker as rain clouds moved in. John sat in his chair and made small talk with Stamford, who'd only dropped by for an hour or so to say hi. Molly was awkwardly hovering in the kitchen, as far from Sherlock as she could get while still being in the public areas of the flat. 

Sherlock moved from O Come All Ye Faithful to Blue Christmas, hyper aware of the fact that John was sitting mere feet from him, and that his eyes were occasionally coming to rest on his back. The detective wanted nothing more than to turn about and leap on John, to ravage him in that chair. Sherlock trembled a bit under the weight of John's gaze before the doctor looked away again. 

"Supper's ready!" Mrs. Hudson called, quickly moving some of Sherlock's beakers and containers and petri dishes off the table and wiping it down. "Come serve yourselves and sit down!" Everyone slowly shuffled throught the kitchen, piling plates with turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing and other wonderful Christmas food stuffs. Sherlock was the last to get a plate and slowly served himself. 

"Sherlock, dear! What have you done to your mouth?" Mrs. Hudson grabbed the detective's chin and inspected the splits in his lip. 

"It's nothing," Sherlock mumbled, feeling heat rise to his face as he recalled the harsh biting of his lower lip John had inflicted the night before. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John also coloring deeply, ducking his head to stuff his face with turkey and potatoes. 

"But Sherlock-" Mrs. Hudson continued to press, gasping when the detective jerked his face out of her grip. 

"It's nothing Mrs. Hudson, now please leave off!" Sherlock snapped, grabbing his plate and stalking back into the main room to sulk in his chair. The detective didn't eat much, mostly pushed his food around his plate until he finally set it aside and picked up his violin again, picking rather sullenly at the strings. He worried at his lip a bit, causing small twinges of pain to flicker through him when he hit the small wounds John made with his teeth. Sherlock looked up, still biting his lip, to see John staring at him from where he sat at the table, fork frozen halfway between the plate and his mouth. John's face was a deep shade of strawberry, and his eyes were glued to where Sherlock was chewing his lip. The detective released his hold, and John swallowed, setting down his fork. Sherlock stilled his picking at the violin, and bit his lip again. John's mouth fell open a bit. 

"You alright, Watson?" Lestrade asked, grabbing his shoulder in a steadying manner. "You're a bit..." 

"I'm fine," John said, hastily returning to his plate. Sherlock returned to plucking at his violin strings, staring down at his hands. His heart was beating too fast, too hard in his chest, and he couldn't seem to keep himself from licking his lips and glancing up to look at John. 

The doctor, too, was unable to keep his eyes away from Sherlock for long, and multiple times, their eyes met, causing them to hastily look away, coloring again. 

After a few hours and once dark had truly fallen, Stamford and Lestrade left, quickly followed by Molly and then, finally, Mrs. Hudson, leaving the two awkward companions alone. 

John sat in his chair, to which he had returned after supper, and did his best to focus on reading his book as Sherlock slumped on the couch, hands folded on his stomach as he tried to control the whirling sensation in his brain. His thoughts spiralled around and around John, and the kiss that they'd shared, and how much Sherlock wanted more. 

"You're uncomfortable around me," Sherlock observed softly. "Because of last night." John jumped and dropped his book, staring at Sherlock, who bit his lip again. It was fast becoming a highly provocative bad habit. John swallowed and didn't answer, leaning down to pick his book back up. "John. I don't....I don't want to lose your friendship. Not over this." 

"It was just a kiss, Sherlock," John said roughly, palming his book nervously. "It didn't....It didn't mean anything. It doesn't matter." Sherlock's heart throbbed. 

"But it did mean something," the detective said softly. "It meant something to me." John cleared his throat awkwardly, almost crumpling his paperback. 

"But...I don't....I don't understand," John muttered, refusing to look at Sherlock. Frustrated and frightened that John would once again bolt and maybe never come back, the detective jumped up and pinned John down in his chair, arms on either side of his shoulders, knees on the armrests. "Sherlock!" John yelped, his voice an octave or two higher than normal. 

"John," Sherlock said softly. "Please don't leave. Please, just...try. Try to understand. Or at least pretend to. Honestly, I don't understand myself. I just....I think I..." Sherlock lost his words, stuttering off into embarrassment and silence. 

"Sherlock...It's just...I'm not gay," John mumbled. "I'm not gay." 

"I know," Sherlock said softly. "But...when it comes to me...could, perhaps, an exception be made?" Sherlock tugged on the collar of the green turtleneck John had donned, exposing the line of vivid hickeys on the doctor's throat. Pale, long fingers stroked the marks, and John shuddered at the touch. 

"I don't...I can't...Sherlock!" John gasped as the detective lowered his head and gently kissed the highest of the bruises, lingering. 

"John. You know I'm not...good with this sort of thing. As you pointed out months ago, I tend to trample over Molly and others who try and display affection towards my person,"

Sherlock kept his face tucked against John's shoulder. "But in this instance, I find that it is me with the unwelcome emotions. And it's been driving me mad. I can't focus on my work, I can't do anything but think about you. It's ridiculous. And yesterday....I don't know how to say it. It was....more than I ever could have imagined. For a first time. For me. God, John. I can't...I don't know how to express myself!" Sherlock removed himself from John and paced around the living room, running his hands through his hair. John slowly pushed himself out of his chair and stared at his friend almost running in circles as he tried to find words to say how he felt.

"Sherlock," John said, but the detective didn't hear him, pacing back and forth. "Sherlock!" The younger man halted in his pacing, and looked John up and down before darting closer to him and throwing his arms around him. 

"Please, John, stay," Sherlock whispered in his ear. "You're standing like you want to leave, but please don't. Please." John had never heard the detective beg like this before, and he felt himself weaken against the surprising attack. 

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock," John muttered, feeling his face flood with color as Sherlock held him tightly. "I just...I need time to think. Okay? Give me that." 

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "Think. Alright. That's fine." The detective released John, and took a step back, gently touching the doctor's flaming cheekbone. "Take all the time you need."

John retreated up to his bedroom, and Sherlock played more Christmas music on his violin until the early hours of the morning, and both were aware of the fact that there was a sad, but slightly hopeful lift to the melodies.


	9. New Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I feel like that kid poking at ants with a stick....am I cruel? I do make poor John and Sherlock suffer quite a bit....Y.Y

A couple days after Christmas, Sebastian called Sherlock about a possible embezzelment problem at the bank, and after another couple days of investigation, it dissolved into a mad chase through Cardiff, after the leader of a ring of bank robbers and professional con men. The chase ended in Roath Park, where John skidded to a stop, ahead of Sherlock for once. The doctor yanked his gun out of where it was tucked in the back of his pants, took aim, and shot the fleeing man in the back of the knee, incapacitating him.  
John drew back his gun so it was pointing straight up into the air, feeling a little pleased with himself. For just a moment, he really felt like a defender of justice and peace and all things good. To tell the truth, for just a second there, he felt pretty damn awesome. 

And then Sherlock crashed into him from behind. 

"John? Where did he go? Did he get away?" the detective said, panting and sporting a black eye and a cut along one marvellous cheekbone. 

"No," John grunted from where he was pinned under Sherlock's body. "He's over there, you great bloody idiot!" 

"Oh," Sherlock said, getting up, dusting himself off and reaching for his phone to call Lestrade, Sebastian and the local authorities. As the detective spoke animatedly into his phone, John walked over to where the man was lying on the ground, snarling and cursing and trying to get up on one leg. 

"You're not going anywhere," John said nonchalantly. "You've, ah, _damaged_ most of the ligamets, tendons, and well, just about everything in your knee. You won't be able to walk for a long time." 

"Fuck you!" the man on the ground gasped, yanking something out of his pocket and throwing it at John. The doctor, taken by surprise, didn't have time enough to even shout before the four and a half inch blade took him between two of his ribs. 

"Sherlock-!" John gasped, pain exploding from where the knife was embedded. John dropped his gun in favor of clutching at his rib cage, just under his left pectoral. The blade had taken him between his fourth and fifth ribs, and John felt instant concern for everything under those bones. 

"John!" Sherlock cried, dropping his phone to run over as his friend fell back onto his arse, his face a grimace of pain. The detective kicked the suspect's hand away from where it was reaching for John's gun and picked it up himself. Gripping the weapon by the barrel, Sherlock beat the man about the head and neck and shoulders with the butt of it until he fell unconcious. Snarling, Sherlock turned and grabbed John by the shoulders, crouching over him. 

"John, _John,_ speak to me," the detective urged, running his fingers over the doctor's face, examining him, taking in the details of how badly he was hurt. Sherlock moved down to where the knife was impaled, gently using a knife he'd taken off one of the bodies of the men he'd fought while John had pursued the suspect to cut through the fabric of John's jumper and peel it away from his upper body. The knife was embedded only about halfway into John's chest, and blood was oozing up from around the blade. 

"Hurts..." John wheezed as Sherlock gently probbed the area,calling up what he knew of injuries and treatment and John. 

"Tell me what to do, John, you're the bloody doctor!" Sherlock hissed, pressing gently around the blade to put pressure on the wound. 

"Call...the bloody....paramedics," John panted, piercing Sherlock with such a strong _"obviously"_ look, the detective had the slightest idea as to what it was to be someone normal on the recieveing end of his glare. 

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock tugged John's phone out of the doctor's pocket, since the detective had abandoned his a few yards away. Quickly calling Lestrade and summoning as many ambulances he was allowed, Sherlock returned his attention to his fallen doctor. "They're on their way, John. You'll be alright," the detective said softly, reaching up to stroke the doctor's pale, pained face. 

"Alright.. _.fuck, Sherlock!_ Don't touch it!" the doctor yelped as Sherlock tested the security of the blade in John's flesh. 

"My apologies," the detective murmured, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. His John, in danger again, because he was too much of a fool to pay attention to the man on the ground. Instead, his attention had been focused on his doctor, and on speaking to Lestrade, that he'd missed the signs of the suspect still being armed and therefore dangerous. God, Sherlock hated himself sometimes. 

~*~

John and the ring leader were taken away to the hospital, and Sherlock insisted on riding in the back with John, resulting in two very annoyed EMTs as he deduced their lives (both private and public) as they extracted the knife in John's chest and checked him for internal bleeding or a punctured lung. 

"Sherlock," John grumbled from under his oxygen mask. "Shut up." The detective snapped his jaws shut, but felt increasingly antsy from his level of concern for John, for the fear that something might be truly wrong, that he might lose him. 

~*~

The wound turned out to be non-life-threatening, but dangerously close to it. The blade had only avoided puncturing John's lung by centimeters, And had he been any closer or the man thrown any harder, John might not have been so lucky. 

After a couple of days, eight stitches, and a few blood transfusions, John was released from the hospital. He was actually released on New Years Eve, and the cab ride back to 221b filled him with tension and uncertainty. 

Sherlock was not in when he returned, to his relief. John changed his clothes, and headed back out,deciding to accept Sarah's offer to attend her New Years bash. 

"What, no tall, pale, and annoying with you?" the willowy woman asked as she answered his knock at the door. "I'm surprised, John. You hardly go anywhere without him attatched to your hip." John scowled as Sarah laughed and beckoned him in. 

He mingled, talking to a few people from work, a couple of patients he didn't know all that well, but Sarah did. It was about ten, five hours since he'd been released from the hospital, when he felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket. John pulled it out, frowning. 

_**Where are you? The hospital said you were released hours ago. Are you alright? -SH** _

John sighed. He hadn't told Sherlock where he was going, though it must have been obvious to the observant detective that he'd been home at least once since being released. 

**_At Sarah's New Years Eve party. JW_ **

The reply came only moments later. 

**_Oh._ **

_He didn't even bother to sign it,_ John thought irritably, deciding not to continue the conversation. Instead, he sent a text to Sarah, who was chatting animatedly with a few of her friends. 

**_Interested in maybe meeting up at midnight? ;) JW_ **

He saw her check her phone a few moments later, and John felt a little nervous, which he expected, but also strangely guilty, like he was doings something wrong by asking Sarah to share the New Year Kiss with him. And perhaps more, if she was agreeable. It'd been a while since he'd had a proper shag, what with all the madness with Sherlock lately. 

**_Bit forward, aren't you, Watson? ;D ~Sarah_ **

John smiled, recognizing her teasing for what it was, and continued to flirt back and forth with her for the better part of an hour. 

~*~

Sherlock was laying on his back in his bed in the dark, staring unseeingly up at the cieling. 

John was with Sarah. 

John was avoiding him still. 

Crushing despair filled the detective, and he rolled over onto his side, curling into himself as he fought the oncoming wave of depression. 

John did not want Sherlock, be it out of stubbornness, fear, or whatever else went on in that head of his, and the undeniable information wrecked havoc on what Sherlock knew was his heart. The organ seemed to have taken quite the beating over the last few months, and felt swollen and bruised and bleeding in his chest, though he knew that was not actually possible. 

Sherlock's phone dinged, and he considered ignoring it, but then sighed and grabbed it, checking the text. 

**_I want to push you against the wall and kiss you until you can't think straight. I want to make your legs feel like they're about to collapse, and then carry you upstairs and make you scream my name until everyone can hear you. JW_ **

~*~

John stared down at his phone in horror. 

He'd texted Sherlock. He'd meant to text Sarah, he really had, but _"Sarah,"_ and _"Sherlock,"_ were right next to each other in his contact list. 

Oh, God. He'd just sexted Sherlock. What would the man think of that? Would he laugh? Would he...

John's phone dinged. 

...reply? 

**_You are more than welcome to do so, after what you just did to me with that text. -SH_ **

~*~

Sherlock sat bolt upright on his bed, fighting the urge to palm his iron-hard member through his pants, trying to ignore the images of John actually doing to him what he had said he wanted to do dancing through his over-active brain. 

Sherlock was not stupid. He knew the original text had not been meant for him. It was probably meant for Sarah, who was the only other "S" in John's phone. It made the detective's stomach burn with jealousy and pain that John was trying to get the woman to hop back into the sack with him while he was supposed to think about starting....something, something important and amazing and unimaginable with Sherlock. 

It had been a risk, sending a reply like he had, but dammit, he wanted to make it very clear that he was interested in John. 

~*~ 

John swallowed hard, trying his very best to return his attention to Sarah, but unable to stop wondering what in the world he'd done to Sherlock. Finally, his resolve broke, and furiously chewing his lip with nerves, he texted back, striving for something between curiousity and innocence. 

**_I apologize. What have I done to you? JW_ **

~*~

Sherlock's heart leapt at the lack of rejection in John's text, a smile breaking out over his face at the tentative encouragment coming from the doctor. 

~*~

**_Would you like me to show you? -SH_ **

John swallowed again, drily. His heart was thudding in his chest far faster than he could ever remember it beating, except, perhaps, on Christmas Eve. He felt that fear creeping in, too, and before he could lose his courage, he quickly sent a reply. 

~*~

**_Yes. JW_ **

Sherlock jumped out of bed and looked around wildly. He ran over to the wall where the dimmer for his cieling light was located, and lifted it about halfway, lighting the room, but not glaringly so. Then he shoved a couple of piles of books out of the way in order to get to the mirror hanging on the back of his closet door. 

~*~

It was a few minutes before John got another text, and he sat and sweated it out, ignoring the couple of texts Sarah sent him. 

_**? ~Sarah** _

_**John? ~Sarah** _

_**Hello? ~Sarah** _

He saw her frown at him from across the room, but pretended he didn't see her and ducked into her bathroom to hide. He didn't want to think to much about how he'd traded sexting with her to sexting with _Sherlock,_ of all people. 

His phone dinged, and he jumped a mile before calming down enough to check it. 

It was a photograph. 

John's mouth fell open, and he blushed from his jaw to his hairline, despite the fact that Sherlock was almost fully clothed. 

The detective was wearing black slacks and that violet shirt, which was unbuttoned and hanging open over his pale chest. He was facing the mirror at a three fourths angle, holding the phone just high enough to partly hide a shy smile and deep blush over his cheekbones, his eyes sparkling with an emotion John had learned to accociate with the kitchen's imminent demise. His free hand was pressed against his hip, outlining where an obvious erection strained the front of the slacks. 

John felt his own cock jump to full attention, despite the fact that he'd been denying his half-aware member any attention at all ever since he'd started texting Sherlock. His phone dinged with a text. 

**_Do you see what you do to me, John? -SH_ **

**_God, yes. JW_ **


	10. Midnight

"John? Are you alright?" Sarah Sawyer knocked on the door to the bathroom in her flat, frowning. John Watson had disappeared inside almost twenty minutes ago, right after he'd stopped flirting with her. It was a little odd. 

"F-fine!" came the startled reply. Sarah tried the knob; it was locked. 

"John, are you sure?" 

"Yes! I'm fine! Totally fine!" Sarah scowled. He didn't sound fine. He sounded like he did when they were hitting the peak of their foreplay, and she knew he sure as hell wasn't participating with any foreplay with her at the moment. Grumbling to herself, Sarah stalked off, emersing herself back into the party and determined to find someone to kiss in front of John at midnight, leaving the doctor on his lonesome. 

~*~

John sat on the closed toilet lid, heart pounding frantically in his chest. Thank God he'd locked the door, preventing Sarah from walking in on him with a painful erection and no excuse in his arsenol that would make her happy. 

Damn that Sherlock Holmes! John thought as his mobile buzzed in his hands, making him jump. 

**_Come home, John -SH_ **

The doctor knew he'd meant it as a request, but he it felt more like a hopeful question. John bit his lip. He'd already asked Sarah to share the Midnight Kiss with him, and had been hoping to get into her bed afterward. But now....Jesus, he was actually contemplating going home and getting into bed with someone else entirely. His phone buzzed again, insistently. 

**_Please._ **

The message came with another picture. John squirmed uncomfortably as he realized that Sherlock had unzipped his trousers, changing the tilt of his head from something uncertain and mischevious, to slightly desperate and wanton, his lips parted slightly, eyes glittering. 

Evil incarnate he might be, but Sherlock Holmes sure as hell knew how to pose. 

~*~

Sherlock waited anxiously for a reply, unable to help fidgeting and pacing as three minutes, then five, then ten passed without a reply from the doctor. He was sure that his provocative body language and expression would be enough to lure John back to the flat. But apparently not. 

Disappointed, the detective threw himself down on his mattress, grumbling. He wasn't sure how to go about this. How did one actually seduce another? It was never anything he'd really studied, with the exception of the case of The Woman, which had been a rather intriguing lesson. That had been the biggest driving factor behind his belief that he was incapable of love. If he'd ever been able to love someone, he would have thought it would be her. She was interesting, unique, and had been almost been his intellectual equal. 

Well. As close as someone other than Mycroft could get to being an equal of Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock had never really thought about his sexuallity, never considered the idea that the reason he hadn't been able to love Irene Adler had been because she was a woman.

He'd already come to the conclusion that he loved John, and therefore, his sexuality must have been adverse to falling in love with someone he was not physically attracted to. It only made sense. 

Sherlock blew out a breath, checking his mobile again. 

_**No New Messages** _

"Dammit," Sherlock swore. He'd pushed John just a little too far in asking him to come home, and the detective knew he might not return tonight at all. Sherlock dropped his face forward onto his mattress and swore colorfully for a few minutes. Then, his mobile dinged loudly in his hand, and he eagerly checked it. 

_**You're doing it wrong, little brother. }MH** _

_**PISS OFF MYCROFT -SH** _

Snarling, Sherlock jabbed the Send button with a little more force than was strictly necessary, hoping Mycroft would take the not-so-obvious hint. 

_**Oh, please. Do you want to have your little doctor or not? }MH** _

Sherlock scowled blackly as his elder brother ignored his blatant request to _go away._

**_You're thinking with your brain too much, Sherlock. Doctor Watson is a man of the heart. }MH_ **

Growling, the detective didn't grace Mycroft with a reply, instead choosing to text John again, who still had not answered his query of over twenty minutes ago. 

~*~

John was in a self-induced dilemma. 

His thoughts bounced back and forth between wanting Sherlock in a way he'd never expected to want him, and knowing for a fact that he'd never been attracted to men in his life. 

God, was he really having a sexual identity crisis in his ex-girlfriend's _bathroom?_

_Sherlock, Sherlock, God, he looked...fuckable. Totally and completely fuckable. And I'm one more sext away from charging home and taking him wherever the hell I find him, gay or not._

_Shit._ He really was. 

John moaned and put his head in his hands. _Okay, Watson, let's try to take a step back and look at this,_ he told himself, _taking a deep, calming breath. Obviously, I am suffering from some sort of break-down, be it because I'm suddenly (or not-so-suddenly) attracted to my flatmate, who seems more than willing to take a step that absolutely terrifies me._

_**Bzzzt. Bzzzt.** _

John jumped as his phone announced another text, and hesitantly, he opened it. 

**_Until now, I always got by fine on my own. I never really cared until I met you. You don't know how long I have wanted to touch your lips and hold you tight. I want to tell you something, but the words won't come, and they're still a secret inside my heart. Please, John. Come home. -SH_ **

~*~

Sherlock had fought for nearly an extra five minutes for the words, and now that he'd sent the text off to John, he felt...terribly nervous. And Sherlock Holmes was never nervous.

The detective chewed his lip and waited for a reply. His mobile dinged. 

**_OK. JW_ **

~*~

John left Sarah's party without saying good-bye to her, or explaining why he was abandoning his previous plan of spending mindnight (and possibly after) with her. He got a cab home, and came almost to the point of twitching with nerves by the time he got to 221b. After paying, he stood outside for a minute, checking his watch and swallowing drily. 11:43 PM. Almost New Years. Licking his lips and drawing upon his military determination and bravery, John headed upstairs. 

~*~

Sherlock had moved from his bedroom to the living room, sprawling over the couch, impatient and waiting for John to _hurry up and get here already._ Sherlock estimated the cab ride to be about ten minutes, fifteen if the streets were crowded. 

At nearly a quarter till midnight, the detective heard the front door open, and determined footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock jumped up and stood expectantly in the middle of the room, shirt hanging off one shoulder, trousers still unzipped and hanging much lower on his hips than usual. John's steps on the stair slowed, then stopped in front of the door. Sherlock chewed his lip, wanting to go over and throw the door open, but not wanting to scare John off. 

After a minute, Sherlock despaired of John ever coming inside of his own free will. 

_Doctor Watson is a man of the heart._

Suddenly struck with an idea, Sherlock grabbed his violin from where it lay in his armchair, and tucked it under his chin, shutting his eyes. He let out a small breath, and focused on the emotions in his head and heart, the feelings he held for John, and began to play. 

~*~

John stood outside the door to the flat, unable to muster enough courage to open the door to go inside. It was probably a full minute he stood there before he heard something he hadn't expected. 

Sherlock was playing the violin, and the melody he played somehow made John's heart swell. He stood and listened for a few moments, shutting his eyes. The voice of the instrument spoke of hope and fear and longing, and something else John knew, but didn't want to put a name to, for fear he would bolt. 

John slowly reached out and turned the knob, letting the door fall open without stepping inside. 

Sherlock was standing with his back to John, facing the fireplace, which was dark. Faint light from the window streamed in, dappling the detective's figure with interesting patterns as he moved, gently pulling the bow across the strings. John knew Sherlock knew he was here, but neither of them did anything for the moment. Sherlock continued to play, and John continued to watch. It was several minutes before the detective lowered his violin, and hung his head, his breathing coming a little faster than normal. His confession-via violin-had been enough to get John to open the door, but not to come inside. Sherlock sighed softly, gently laying the instrument back down and sinking back onto the couch. 

"Sherlock..." John said quietly, still not entering the flat. "I..." Sherlock just shook his head, and the doctor fell silent. 

"I'm sorry to have robbed you of your evening, John," Sherlock said in a weary tone. He had tried. He'd used the only way he could to express the love in his heart, and it still _wasn't enough_. 

"You didn't-" John began to protest, taking a step into the flat. Sherlock turned rapidly in his seat to stare at him, his heart leaping into his throat. John was staring at him, looking increasingly awkward. "You didn't rob me of anything," the doctor mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and glaning at Sherlock shyly. "I came of my own free will, didn't I?" Sherlock nodded, licking his lips lightly. John was _so close_ , and the detective wanted to jump over the back of the couch and tackle him. But he knew that a move like that, an aggressive move by Sherlock would cause the man to bolt, just as he had before. 

John hesitantly took a few more steps into the flat until he was less than a foot behind the couch, within arm's reach of Sherlock. The detective reigned in his rampaging emotions, stamping them into submission. He would _not_ compromise this chance. 

"I suppose you did," Sherlock said, his heart refusing to come down from its unhealthy rate of _John-Is-Within-Two-Feet-Of-Me-So-I'm-Going-To-Explode-Any-Second-Now._

"I...I'm not sure where to go from here," John admitted, rubbing at the back of his head and neck, a habit he'd developed whenever he was nervous. Sherlock said nothing, chewing his lip, hoping John wouldn't run away again. 

The clock on the mantle chimed midnight, and a sudden _BOOM_ shook 221b as the New Years fireworks went off over London. 

"Midnight," Sherlock said hoarsely, glancing out the window. "Happy New Year, John." 

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," John said, his throat dry. He took a deep breath and leaned down, grabbing Sherlock's face and gently placing a firm kiss on the detective's lips as the New Year began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no smut in this chapter....sorry! Y.Y It just felt wrong for me to have John run home and jump into bed with Sherlock when he's having such an internal struggle over it...forgive me? 
> 
> And here's the violin music I imagined Sherlock playing in this chapter: 
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFZ7bBaYpcw
> 
> Also, it was pointed out that yes, the words in Sherlock's "always got by fine before you" text was inspired by the song Alone, which basically inspired this entire fic. 
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BbRfapWaOKk


	11. Someone Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, usually, I update about a chapter or two a day...this one chapter took me a little longer to write because...well. It's a little bit of a painful scene, and it was hard for me to write. I'm sorry.

It was...different, from kissing a woman, John thought. Sherlock's mouth was thinner, and less soft. Now that they weren't desperately locked in a mess of lips and tongues and teeth and rutting up against a wall like animals, the doctor was noticing so many things about this man, this amazing, infuriating detective that seemed to get a kick out of taking John's world and turning it on its side. 

John ran his hands back into Sherlock's thick curls, feeling, exploring, trying to memorize the texture and thickness and soft-as-kitten-fur sensation of the detective's hair.

Sherlock's hands reached up, one tangling in his jumper, the other cupping the back of John's neck to prevent him from moving away. Even as the chiming faded away and most couples in London broke apart, grinning, John and Sherlock remained locked together. Sherlock hesitantly parted his lips and swiped his tongue across the seam of John's mouth. The doctor started, then slowly relaxed, allowing the kiss to deepen and take a hungrier turn. 

It was rather awkward with the couch between them, and Sherlock twisted all the way round to come up onto his knees on the cushions, allowing John to stand up a little straighter. The doctor wrapped his arms around the detective, pulling him tighter against his chest. John's heart was racing, and he realized that he was getting increasingly light-headed from lack of oxygen. Sherlock, however, showed no signs of breaking the kiss anytime soon, so John took it upon himself to pull away, gasping. Sherlock gave a low growl of annoyance, making John's heart leap into his throat. The detective climbed further up the couch until he was balanced in a crouch on the back of it, then threw himself at John, taking them both down to the floor with a rather solid thud. 

"Sherlock!" John gasped as the detective latched onto his neck, leaving a bright mark before moving on to his jaw, his earlobe, learning, exploring the doctor as he'd been longing to. 

"John," Sherlock said, smirking against the doctor's cheek. The younger man gently tugged John's jumper up, exposing a stripe of abdomen that he gleefully explored with his palms and long fingers. John jumped at the feel of Sherlock's hands on his skin, and gasped lightly as they wandered. The doctor knotted his hands in the back of Sherlock's shirt, fighting the rising urge to resist the detective's advances. Sherlock stilled, noticing John's sudden discomfort. 

"I..." John breathed as the younger man pulled away slightly, his green eyes, dark with lust, flicking over John's body, deducing and observing. Slowly, he leaned down and nuzzled John's neck, making the doctor let out a small gasp. John's heart was beating fast, too fast, and he could barely hear for the beating of his pulse in his ears. The detective let out a little sigh, nipping at John's skin. 

"I don't want to be patient," Sherlock growled, biting hard enough to make John cry out in surprise. The detective ran his tongue lightly over the offended skin before pushing away and standing up, walking away from where John lay on the floor, feeling a little shocked by the change of mood. 

"Sherlock? What the hell!" John sat up, feeling strangely put-out. "I came, didn't I? I'm here! I bloody gave up shagging Sarah to come home to _you!_ Don't you dare back out on me now!" The detective barked out a laugh. 

"It's not _me_ with the reservations, John. It's not _me_ clinging so desperately to the illusion of being heterosexual," Sherlock pointed out, not turning to look at the doctor, who quickly got to his feet and bristled. 

"I-I don't-I'm not-" John stammered, trying to find a way to describe his inner turmoil. "I'm having a crisis, okay! I don't know what I am anymore! You've been driving me barmy, and I don't know how to bloody take that! I've never fancied a bloke, never! And you, ooh, _YOU_ just have to bloody go and decide that you're going to go round the twist and start pursuing ME of all people-" Sherlock laughed again, cutting John off. 

"Who else would I pursue, John? Who else could I possibly become close enough to in order to have these-these feelings manifest?" the detective demanded, and John snorted. 

"Molly always seemed to be more than happy to polish your knob for you-" the doctor replied sullenly, and Sherlock whirled around to snarl at him. 

"Molly Hooper is boring! They're _all_ boring! Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, all of them! Easily predictable, so _obviously_ mundane, with their petty problems and secrets and fears-" Sherlock waved his hand in a wide arc, his bright eyes blazing. 

"Then why am I different!" John barked, cutting the detective short. "Boring old me, nearly ten years your senior, nothing much to look at and so obviously uncapable of keeping up with your _massive intellect_ because, oh, that's right, you're the great Sherlock Holmes, and you do whatever strikes your fancy whenever you bloody well feel like it, be it blowing up our kitchen at two in the morning or running off on your own into unimaginable danger or bloody trying to _seduce_ me!" Sherlock blushed, and John scowled at him. 

"I am not trying to seduce you," Sherlock grumbled, looking away. 

"Then what the bloody hell do you call _these?"_ John demanded, pulling out his phone and waving the pictures Sherlock had sent him in the detective's face. "Postcards from the Land of Sex?" Sherlock blushed more deeply, but drew himself up and did his best to look down his nose at the infuriated doctor. 

"You wish to fight with me only to statisfy your hope that what I...that this thing between us will be vanquished, or at least ignored," Sherlock spat, crossing his arms over his chest as John glared at him. 

"This is stupid," John spat, making Sherlock flinch. "I'm not gay! And you, you're bloody _asexual,_ or so close to it that it doesn't even matter! You don't have a heart, Sherlock, you've said so yourself! Knowing you, this is just some sort of twisted _experiment_ like those bloody mice in the fucking breadbox that ended up eating each other after they ran out of bread! And I don't want to end up all sorts of fucked-up in the head to satisfy your _stupid_ need to _know!_ I won't be some stupid fucking experiment, I won't ever want something _special_ with _someone like you!_ " John had taken a couple of steps forward without realizing it, and Sherlock was backed up against the wall. John's posture was stiff and rigidly controlled, the tendons in his neck standing out, his hands balled into tight fists. The ex-soldier's body language screamed _anger defiance frustration HATE_ at Sherlock, and it took John a few moments to come back to himself and truly see what he had done to the younger man. 

Sherlock looked...stricken. John had never lashed out at the detective like that before, certainly not in a way that seemed so...violent without ever touching him. Yes, they'd fought before, both with words and with fists, but John had never seen this level of _agony_ on Sherlock's face. As the tension drained from the doctor's body, Sherlock's expression contorted into something approaching devestated, crushed...

 _....Broken-hearted._

John felt his heart leap up into his throat, remorse squeezing his lungs so tightly he'd thought he was going to stop breathing. 

"Sherlock, I...I didn't mean..." John began, but Sherlock simply straightened, walked past him, his eyes dark and empty. "Sherlock, _wait!"_

"We have nothing else to speak about, John. I bid you good-night," the detective said, his voice cold, hard, and leaving no room for discussion. John felt a giant weight of guilt settle onto his heart and mind, crushing him beneath them. After the door to Sherlock's room slammed shut, John crumpled to the ground, falling to his knees and slamming his fists onto the floor. 

"FUCK!" John yelled, hate for himself welling up inside until it poured out of his mouth in a stream of filthy profanity, which continued until his self-loathing flowed from his eyes in a torrent of tears and sobs muffled by Mrs. Hudson's rug. 

~*~

John laid on the floor until his back ached and his legs fell asleep, and then laid there some more, despite the uncomfortable, hunched position. 

_I don't ever want something_ special _with someone like_ you! 

Out of all the things he could have said to Sherlock, that was probably the worst he could ever had pulled. John knew Sherlock was about as emotionally mature as a seven-year-old with a superiority complex, stuffed into a grown man's body with a genuis brain. And John had just gone and stampeded all over Sherlock in the man's attempt to offer John his heart. If the detective had truly been serious about starting something between them. Something more than friendship. 

_Of course he was serious, you insensitive twat! Didn't you see his_ face?! _He looked like you ripped his heart out of his chest and_ stomped _on it!_

John choked back another onslaught of sobs, putting his hands over his face and pressing his fingertips into his own skin until he knew he'd left bruises. God, he'd gotten far beyond stepping over the line. He'd pole vaulted over it and then took off at a run after he'd hit the ground. 

_Idiot! You've ruined everything! Everything! What do you expect to do now, after you've destroyed him? Did you think that hurting him like this would make everything all better? That things would go back to the way they were, before he started giving you a hard-on with a couple of pictures?_

Yes. He had, somewhere deep in his subconcious, hoped for that. After all, John Watson was a stubborn man when he wanted to be. And he'd been stubborn all the way to where he was, curled on the floor with nothing to show for his resistence but his best mate in the whole world's heart torn in two in his hands. 

_Was this what you wanted? To drive him away from you, so far away that you'd feel so safe and secure in your so-called "heterosexuality" (which, by the way, is on VERY thin ice at the moment) that you didn't even want the man as your friend for fear of becoming his lover?_

_You can't say you haven't been a little suspicious that things were evolving between you and Sherlock. When was the last time you had a steady girlfriend? Jeanette? And that's if you can call five dates and one shag a relationship. And you gave her up within seconds when she asked you to choose between her and Sherlock. I mean, come on, man. This thing's been growing in your subconcious for almost two years, and you haven't noticed?_

No, John hadn't. Though, now, he was pretty sure he'd used that odd, and rather crude, American saying as an excuse: bros before hos. Though he wasn't sure he'd ever call Sherlock a "bro" or any of his previous girlfriends a "ho." Strange Americans. 

_Focus, Watson. Let's face it: you've been inching closer to fancying Sherlock every day since the moment you met him. Even when he shot you down that first day at Angelo's._

But he hadn't been flirting! He really hadn't. The series of questions about Sherlock's personal life and relationships had merely been the simple concern of a flatmate wondering if he should watch out for socks on any doorknobs. 

_Remind me, John, how is it that you've picked up the majority of your girls? Through your devistating good looks and a careful game plan?_

_Please._

_You pick women up with a natural charm and unconcious flirting mechanism that gets switched to "ON" in the back of your brain whenever you see someone you'd like to have a go at._

_Why should Sherlock Holmes be any different, even if he is a man?_

But that was just it. John had never wanted another man before. Bloody hell, they'd shared two snogs, and they'd both been instigated by John! He'd never expected to find himself willingly throwing himself at another man. It was just...Goddammit, he didn't know what it was! He didn't know why he was opposed to being with another man, be it casually or seriously. 

_Well, Mum and Dad weren't exactly thrilled when Harry brought Clara home. They were mad for each other, but Dad still hasn't spoken to Harry outside of mandatory family gatherings in over ten years. And Mum...well, I have no idea how well she's take it to have two gay children. She's been pestering me for grandchildren since the day I moved out._  
 _But that's not the whole story, is it? It's that Harry and Clara didn't stay together. They were more than happy at first, and all was well and good and unicorns and rainbows for a while there, but then it all fell apart. Horribly. And even though I know it had nothing to do with them being gay, I've never experienced the amount of pain I heard in Harry's voice the day she phoned me to tell me the bad news._

_Except, maybe, for right now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y.Y I know a lot of you were expecting some smut, but, well....I allow you to raise your pitchforks and torches to the sky after this chapter. Because I really, really do deserve it, especially with the next chapter I'm trying to find the courage to write. Next one, we will be diving way, way, WAAAAAYYYY over our heads into Sherlock's head, and be ready to ride out some major angst waves, folks. And try not to murder me. 
> 
> Leave me a comment to give me the strength to continue on! Because really, this story is killing me right now as it is you, if not more.


	12. The Heart Room

_Pain._

_Pain unlike anything I'd ever felt, pain like someone had taken a knife and carved out my heart to stab it over and over again, but even though I feel like I should be dead, my heart keeps beating, and the stabbing continues with every throb, every beat, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain._

_It's agony. It's wrong. I should not feel this way. I have no heart to break. I have no heart to be torn to pieces and burned without it ever leaving my body. I have no heart. I am cold. I am ice. I am a still lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains, still and smooth and unchanging, unable to feel this agony making me feel as though HE has trapped me in a tiny space full of knives and everytime I so much a breathe, it's another cut, another slice, another stabbing bit of pain that never stops._

_I want to stop breathing. This pain, I never knew I could feel like this. I never knew....I didn't know that love could end this way._

**_Bzzt. Bzzt._ **

Sherlock was standing still as a statue in his room, frozen in the same position he'd been when he'd shut the door and covered his face with his hands. He was not crying. He couldn't find the strength for tears. It was a miracle he was still standing. His phone vibrated insistently in his pocket. 

_**Bzzt. Bzzt.**_

He didn't want to look at the texts. But it might be Lestrade, with a case. If that was so, then he had the absurd thought of taking it, just so he could arrange for himself to become the murderer's next victim. He had nothing. He was nothing. 

_Emptyness. The halls of my mind palace are empty, and the door to HIS room is shut. HIS door is never shut. HE is as open to me as a book. I know HIM like no other, just as HE knows me. Without that door open, the vast, sprawling hallways and rooms and memories and knowledge is empty._

_I am empty._

_**Bzzt. Bzzt.** _

Sherlock slowly, mechanically, commands his body to move, to straighten his neck and put hand in his pocket and withdraw his phone. He orders his fingers to open the texts, and his eyes to read them. 

_**Sherlock. }MH** _

_**Sherlock, answer your phone. }MH** _

_**I know what happened. I'm so sorry. }MH** _

It was Mycroft's apology that broke Sherlock. The detective hit his knees, the phone falling numbly from his fingers as he stared up at his cieling, green eyes overflowing and tears flowing down his face silently. A roaring in his ears blocked out all other noises, and he wasn't sure if his brother texted again, or even if he called him. Sherlock, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, was gone, fled so deeply into his mind palace that he didn't even notice when his body keeled over into the fetal position on the bedroom floor. 

_I don't want to live anymore. It hurts too much. Make it stop. Please, for the love of God, make it stop! I never thought love could feel this way. I knew it was a liability, The Woman proved that to me. But I never knew it could be crippling._

_Pain._

Deep inside his own head, Sherlock lost his grip on his spiraling mind, and everything began to blur and grow until he wanted to scream for everything to stop, just _stop!_

_John, God, John, love John want John need John John John hate and anger and denial and frustration and hate hate hate all on John's face, John's face love John's face his eyes and nose and eyebrows and tan and his mouth love John's mouth love John's kisses love touching John love John want more of John but John hates hates hates me hates me hates me for loving him so angry so hateful John angry hateful face not my John my John soft eyes and warm smile and friendly and there and always there standing beside me always beside me standing by me against this awful world John John John my John my doctor my soilder my defender my love. I love John. I love John! I love John and it HURTS._  
 _Agony agony and pain pain PAIN make it stop make it stop._

_Mycroft is sorry Mycroft knows bad bad bad in pain hurts brother make it stop God, please make it stop John Mycroft Mummy I hurt and I don't know why but John hurt me and I can't make it stop hurting everything hurts every breath hurts every beat of my heart hurts every thought is agony in my brain and I want it to stop stop stop but it won't won't won't!_

_I never want anything special with someone like you!_

_Someone like me me me I am unique but not in a good way I am bad bad bad because I am a freak freak freak always a freak always a freak everyone knows I am a freak everyone says I am freak but John John John my John never called me a freak always supportive of me never hated me my John calls me amazing and fantastic and brilliant my John never never never hurts me-_

_Stupid stupid stupid experiments and mice and bread and John hating me hate on John's face and in John's body anger and hate and fury boiling over like a kettle on the stove too long and I'm scared and hurting hurting hurting as the pain pain pain swells my heart until it explodes into shreds at his words his terrible words so much hate hate hate in John's words and so much pain pain pain in my heart._

_Don't have a heart I don't have a heart everyone says so I say so John my lovely John says so so it must be true I don't have heart so there is no pain in my heart so why does this place in my chest hurt so bad bad bad so bad I want to scream until I can't breathe until I stop breathing and stop screaming and everything stops hurting just to make it stop stop stop._

_Stop stop stop._

_Please. Just stop. Make it all stop. I don't want to hurt anymore. So let my breath stop, let my heart stop. Let me stop thinking._

~*~

Sherlock would never admit it, but there were few people in the world he trusted like his brother. And it wasn't the sort of trust one would expect in two near-estranged siblings. It wasn't even the sort of trust most people would believe the odd Holmes brothers to have. 

It was the sort of trust that allowed Mycroft to kidnap Sherlock when he needed to be. 

Sherlock was taken from 221b Baker Street by two men and escorted to his brother's condo in downtown London. When the detective arrived, the younger man was catatonic, responding to nothing. Sherlock was alive only in the sense that his body was breathing and functioning, but the brilliant brain behind those unbelievable eyes had well and truly checked out with no notice as to when it would be back. 

The tall, rail-thin body laid on Mycroft's leather couch for three hours before the older man sighed and decided to take drastic measures. Sherlock was not responding to insults or challenges or anything he usually would have attempted to throttle Mycroft for saying. So, the elder Holmes brother took a deep breath, steeling himself for the very worst. 

And then reached out and gently stroked Sherlock's hair. 

Nearly instantaneously, the detective's hand shot up and gripped Mycroft's wrist almost to the point of breaking it, though that mattered little to Mycroft. Sherlock was in much worse shape than he'd originally thought. Even when emotionally compromised in the past, Sherlock had never failed to stop Mycroft from touching him at the bare minimum of 2.7 seconds before the elder Holmes's hand touched his hair. Mycroft's fingers had ran along Sherlock's dark curls for a grand total of four seconds. 

Either Sherlock was dying of something that severely impaired his movements, or the younger man was suffering of something Mycroft had never suspected he could ever truly experience. 

"Don't _touch_ me," the detective rasped, squeezing his eyes shut. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly. "Come out of your head." No answer. "Sherlock!" 

But the detective was still wandering in his mind palace, searching for a place so empty of _him_ that he'd be able to escape the hurt for a little while. But there was no such place. In the past year or so, _he_ had crept into Sherlock's conciousness bit by bit, until Sherlock's head was full of _him_ , full of thoughts about _his_ face, _his_ voice, _he_ was all over the place. And it hurt to think of _him_. 

So Sherlock took a turn he hadn't in a long time his mind palace, taking a winding stairway down, down, down. It felt as though he'd been walking forever, but it was only a few seconds in reality. And Sherlock stepped off the stairs to look at the door to his Heart Room. 

The detective never put things in his Heart Room. It was a place he'd scorned and ignored and allowed to gather metaphorical dust in his conciousness. He expected it was still empty and hollow, just as it had been the last time he'd visited it. Sherlock liked to say he _loved_ solving crimes. That he _loved_ to show off his superior intellect and be above everyone else in that one little way. But to Sherlock, _love_ just meant _really, really like_. And Sherlock was sure that his _love_ for John ( _pain hurts hurts hurts to think his name to say it would be agony to see him would be death_ ) had been much the same. 

So Sherlock went into his Heart Room, seeking someplace empty and cold and dark, somewhere he could escape the things he _loved_ and feel secure, hiding from his head inside of his heart. 

But Sherlock's Heart Room was not empty. 

Sherlock's Heart Room was John's room in the detective's mind palace. He was standing in a room that was supposed to be _upstairs_ , in his head, somewhere that had closed when John had hurt him, somewhere that _was not here!_

Numbly, Sherlock waded deeper into the room, and realized that something _was_ different. Instead of being neatly and meticulously organized, everything was off, moved, fallen over, somethings broken and shattered. It looked as though an intense earthquake had rocked the space. Upon closer inspection, the walls were cracked and splitting, and Sherlock realized something, finally, truly _realized_ something. 

Sherlock loved John. He loved him with all the space in his heart, and even though his heart was broken and crippled by John's words, the younger man still loved John with every inch of space he had. 

~*~

Mycroft watched his younger brother as he wandered through his mind palace, his fingers twitching, eyes moving rapidly under his lids. It was not even close to the amount of movement Sherlock usually applied when moving through his own head, and the elder Holmes brother did his best to stamp down his rising concern. 

And then Sherlock did the strangest thing. His hand came up, trembling a bit, then came to rest again on his chest, laying over his heart. And then, from under his closed eyelids, tears began to escape. 

Mycroft sighed. So his younger sibling was, in fact, capable of true love. And John Watson had broken his heart without even realizing that he'd been holding it in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anybody curious about what I sort of based Sherlock's mind palace off of, here's a link: 
> 
> http://anotherboywholived.tumblr.com/post/16156334049/how-to-build-your-own-mind-palace


	13. Burning Heart

John lay slumped on the bar, ignoring the curious glances of the other patrons. Everything was irritatingly clear, and he couldn't feel his legs, and even though he knew he was well on his way to being pissed, John wanted nothing more than to keep drinking until everything went away. 

He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Sherlock in days. It was after the third day that John had realized that Sherlock may never come back. So he'd called Lestrade, and they went down to the pub. John told him nothing of the reason why Sherlock was gone, nor why they'd fought, but the DI let John drink himself under the table, and then took him home.

The fifth day, John went to the pub by himself. 

And it was there that he ran into the last person he'd ever expected to see. He would have expected God Himself before he would have expected the person that slid up beside him and caressed his shoulder. 

"Now, darling, what's got you all upset?" purred a voice in John's ear. The doctor froze for a moment before sitting bolt-upright in his seat, staring incredulously at the woman before him. 

She was tall, and shapely, with raven colored hair and dark eyes. Her mouth was painted a deep, blood red and pulled up into a smirk. She wore a long, wine-colored dress that had more than a couple men around them eyeing her appreciatively and looking and John with envy. But John would have traded the woman before him for anyone, anyone in the world, because he simply could not believe his eyes. 

Irene Adler, a woman who was supposed to have been dead for over a year, stood before him, smirking and stroking his shoulder like she'd love nothing better than to take him home to bed. 

"You're _dead,_ " John rasped, his mind laboring to keep up with the evidence of his eyes, to put two and two together in time to-

"No," the Woman said softly into his ear as she almost lovingly sank a needle into his arm. "I'm not." 

_-run....._

~*~

John would never recall what happened next, but when he next woke, he was lying in bed, naked, and horribly foggy-headed. It took him several minutes to realize that the bed he was lying in was not his own, and the room he woke up in was not in 221b. 

The doctor slowly blinked himself half-aware, and then tried to crawl out of the bed. 

He fell onto the floor and laid there for a moment, trying to get his bearings. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised himself up and looked around. 

It was a nice room. The walls were painted a nice shade of grey, and the carpet was a pleasant eggshell white. The furniture was simple and yet elegant, with a four-poster bed with green and black bedding, a small desk and a chair in mahogony, the same wood that framed the bed, and a black leather armchair by the small fireplace. 

It was either midmorning or creeping into the later hours of the evening, according to the clock on the wall. There were no windows, so John couldn't tell. He dragged himself up and staggered to the one door, and opened it to find a small loo, with a toilet, sink, and standing shower. Frowning, John looked around the bedroom again. There was no other door. And no windows. Something cold and heavy fell into the doctor's stomach. 

He was sealed into a room, with no visible means of escape. 

~*~

"John? Sherlock? Helloooo?" Greg Lestrade knocked on the door to 221b, frowning. Neither man had been answering their cell phones, and Lestrade had a case for them. 

"They're not here," Mrs. Hudson appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wringing a handkerchief in her hands. Her kind face was etched with worry. "I haven't seen Sherlock in a week, and John left a couple nights ago and didn't come back. All their things are here, but they've just up and gone. No idea where they've went. I'm so worried, Detective Inspector. It's not like them." Lestrade frowned. No, no it wasn't. He knew that Sherlock had been gone a couple of days, since John had told him that they'd had a pretty serious row, and the detective had gone AWOL soon after. But John? John had his practice at the clinic, he wouldn't just up and leave without telling anyone. Something was wrong. 

Very wrong.

~*~

John, after sobering up some from his hangover and his injection via the Woman, examined every inch of wall in the room, and found no hidden doors or windows. The closest thing was a vent in the cieling that pushed air in and out of the room. But the cieling was ten feet high, and even standing on the chair, he couldn't reach it. 

John found clothes ( _thank God_ ) in the bathroom, and pulled on pants, trousers, and a dark t-shirt. There were no shoes or socks. He also discovered that the desk was actually a small piano, with a flat lid. The doctor gently touched a couple of keys, surprised that there would be something like this in here. He'd had three or four years of lessons from when he was a child, and remembered only a little. 

With no visible means of escape, John had little else to do but wait. So he sat before the piano, and tried to recall some of the pieces he'd played as a boy. 

~*~

Lestrade tracked John's last known whereabouts to a pub, where he hit a dead end. The bartender told him that the doctor had come in, gotten drunk, and left with a highly attractive woman, whom nobody knew the name of. 

Frustrated, Lestrade quickly turned to the last option he had. John had already been missing for three days. If he waited much longer, the trail would go cold, too cold even for the world's only consulting detective. 

Lestrade punched in a number on his mobile phone, gritting his teeth as it began to ring. 

"Hello?" a smooth, calm voice picked up the other end after a moment. 

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, summoning up all of his manners in order to sound polite. 

"Ah, Detective Inspector," Mycroft Holmes answered, his voice full of false warmth. "How nice to hear from you. How is your wife?" 

"She's fine, thank you," Lestrade answered, trying not to think about the fact that Mrs. Lestrade had moved into her sister's house a couple of weeks ago. "I'm calling about John Watson." 

"Ah, Dr. Watson....if he's looking for Sherlock, you may inform him that my younger brother is fine and well, if a little-" Mycroft began, but Lestrade cut him off. 

"John's gone missing," the DI snapped. "He's been gone three days. No one seems to know where. I need Sherlock's help. I know they got into a bit of a row, but Goddammit-" It was Mycroft's turn to interrupt. 

"Dr. Watson broke my brother's heart, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said, his voice cold, ruthless, and strangely, furious in its own way. "I seriously doubt-what?"   
Lestrade blinked. He heard another voice, muffled and intelligable in the background. 

"Lestrade?" a new voice came over the mobile. It was hoarse and cracked and soft, as if it took great effort to speak. "It's Sherlock Holmes," the voice said. Lestrade felt cold.

Sherlock sounded...ill. Horribly ill. Like _in-a-hospital-bed-dying_ ill. "What's wrong with John?" 

"He's missing, Sherlock," Lestrade said awkwardly, clearing his throat. _Broken his heart, eh?_

"How long?" 

"Three days." 

"I'll be there in an hour." 

~*~

It took John awhile, but eventually he remembered several nice tunes from his childhood, and found a couple of books of sheet music in the bathroom, right where he found the clothes. The doctor was sure that there was a way in and out of the room, since after a several hours, he also found food there. But no matter how long he crouched in the bathroom, waiting, nothing ever happened. 

Approximately on his third or fourth day of imprisonment, John had taken to spending most of his time trying to remember how to read music, and playing the sheets out on the piano. All in all, this was most certainly not the worst hostage situation he'd endured, though it was the most irritating and confusing. Why take him? With Sherlock gone, John was nothing but an ex-army doctor with a modest practice at the local clinic. He was nothing without the brilliant detective. The doctor tried his best to come to a conclusion as to why someone would want to kidnap him, let alone why _Irene Adler_ , who was also supposed to be _dead_ wanted to kidnap him. 

~*~

When Sherlock arrived at NSY, he was at the lowest point Lestrade had ever seen him. There were dark bags under the detective's eyes, and a light shadow of stubble along his jaw. His clothing was rumpled and his scarf was loose around his throat. 

"John," the detective snapped when he walked into Lestrade's office. "Where is John!" 

"That's why you're here!" Lestrade snapped back, taken by surprise at Sherlock's haggard face. "Good God, what _happened_ to you? You look like death warmed over." 

"Thank you," Sherlock replied icily. "Give me what you have. Give me everything." 

"Wait," Lestrade said sternly. "Before I give you anything...I need to know what happened. Between you and John. I saw him a couple days before he vanished, and he was pretty torn up, Sherlock. Almost as bad as you look. And for you, you look like you've been hit by a car." Sherlock stiffened, and stared stonily at Lestrade, probably hoping to intimidate the DI into backing down. But Greg did no such thing. And Sherlock deduced that if he did not tell Lestrade, tell him the truth, then he would be excluded from the case until further notice. 

"We had a row," Sherlock said. Which was true. 

"I already knew that," Lestrade countered, sitting back in his chair. 

"I...Lestrade, I...Damn you," Sherlock sighed, running and hand through his hair and flopping into one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk. "I...I don't know how to say it. I can't say it." Lestrade looked the detective up and down, frowning. It took him a couple of minutes, but he finally made the intuituve leap that saved Sherlock. 

"Holy shit, you're in _love_ with the bloke!" Greg exclaimed, making Sherlock wince. "Sorry. But, blimey, Sherlock. I mean, everybody thought you were shagging, but...I mean..." 

"No one believes me to have a heart," the detective said softly. "Not even John." 

"Oh. _Oh._ " Lestrade said, his eyes widening. "Oh, Sherlock, mate, I'm sorry." 

"Stop apologizing. It does nothing to rectify the situation. Now, tell me what's happened to John." 

~*~

"Wake up, Dr. Watson. I believe it's about time we had a little _chat._ " 

John was woken by a familiar voice, and blinked open his eyes to find the Woman leaning over him. She was wearing a black top and dark jeans, her dark hair piled atop her head. She smiled when she saw he was awake. 

"Ah, there we are. I was just about to get out my crop. Too bad," she purred as he jerked up and away from her. "Oh, _relax._ I'm not going to drug you again. No need. There's no where for you to go, this time." 

"You're...you're supposed to be _dead._ Terrorists killed you," John spouted, trying to scramble away from her. 

"Yes, very good," Irene chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. "That's what Mycroft Holmes told you, isn't it? And that's what everyone believes and thinks to be true. Well. Almost everyone. Sherlock Holmes is one of the few exceptions." 

"Sherlock...he knows.... _what?_ " John stammered, quickly losing his mental footing. 

"Oh, yes. Sherlock, after all, was the one who saved me from beheading all those months ago, and helped me escape to South America," a small, almost sad smile crossed the Woman's face. "But even Sherlock Holmes couldn't hide me forever." 

"I don't understand. What does this have to do with me?" John asked slowly. 

"Moriarty. Jim Moriarty found me again. And he wanted to kill me, for leaving him. Oh, he was sooo angry," Irene smiled again, but it was cold, and hard. "And he wanted to use me. Use me to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes." John swallowed, hard. He had a feeling as to where this was going, and it didn't bode well for him. "But while the lovely Sherlock still has my heart locked up inside of his, that doesn't mean that his heart is full of me. I don't even know if he still keeps me in there, or if he ever did. He respected me, I know. I read your blog. You said it was like he almost mourned me. You thought he loved me. But you never saw the contempt he held for my feelings about him. 

"No, Sherlock Holmes doesn't love me. He never has." The Woman's eyes flicked up from the dark bedspread to pierce John's heart with fear. "But Moriarty has recently come to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't risk himself so much for a mere friend. No, no, no. It seems, that after all, Sherlock is capable of love. For he loves _you_ , doesn't he?" 

~*~

Sherlock was not sleeping at all anymore. 

It had been almost a fortnight, and there was no sign of John. Not a word, not even a _whisper_ , and the detective was nearing his wit's end. One question kept plaguing him, never letting him rest for more than a few seconds. 

_What if John is dead?_

What would he do? Could he go back to Before John? Could he go back to being alone and friendless and without the man he loved? Could Sherlock live without John? 

_Pain._

_No. Never._

_Blinding agony with every second that passes. Need John back, need him back NOW!_

_Never should have left him, never should have let Mycroft take me away._

_Never, never, never._

_John._

~*~

Mycroft watched Sherlock pace back and forth around 221b, his mind struggling to work around the fear and the pain and the love attatched to John, who was still missing. 

"I can't _think!_ " the detective finally burst out. He didn't want Mycroft here, he wanted John, Mycroft was silent and arrogant and watching him like he was so stupid, when John would have been trying to think it out aloud, John would have been saying something silly and innocent which would set Sherlock's mind racing, and then John would look at Sherlock like he was the most briliant man in the world. 

Sherlock snarled and spun around, snatching Mycroft's beloved umbrella right out of the elder man's hands and throwing it up into the air. Faster than Mycroft's eye could follow, Sherlock took out a gun-John's gun-and shot the umbrella six times before it hit the ground, forever ruined. Then Sherlock threw the handgun aside and picked up the ragged umbrella and started hitting things with it, the wall, the sofa, the coffee table, until the poor thing finally broke into multiple pieces. 

Panting, Sherlock finished his fit, straightened up and held what remained of the mangled handle out to his brother. Mycroft took it with a look of dismay on his features. 

But before either man could say anything, the doorbell rang. 

Scowling and ready to make whoever was at the door a new victim of his wrath, Sherlock stormed downstairs, trying to ignore the horrible pain in his chest that had been plaguing him ever since he'd left Mycroft's couch. 

But there was no one at the door. Instead, there was a note tucked under the knocker. Grumbling, the detective plucked it and tore it open. 

_I will burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes._

_< 3_

And beneath, a deliberate smudge of lipstick where someone-a woman-had kissed the paper in a familiar shade of blood-red. Sherlock felt his blood run cold. 

The Woman. The Woman was back, and she was working with Moriarty again, and they had John. 

_Pain. And fear._

_And fury._


	14. Left the World of Genuis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a couple of days since I posted....sorry! I'm having some writers block and doing my best to struggle through it! This chapter is a wee bit short, but next one will be better, I promise!

John slowly, carefully plunked away on the piano, exploring the novelty of making music. He could see why it helped Sherlock think. _(Pain. Don't think about him, John. You're in a bad enough spot as it is.)_

Being imprisioned by Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty wasn't all that bad. He'd been expecting torture and pain and possibly a very long death at the hands of the consulting criminal. But instead, it felt as though he were being bored to death. Luckily, after Irene had knocked him out with a sharp blow to his temple (leaving him with a _terrible_ headache the next day) there had been a notebook and a pen on the counter in the bathroom. He'd used the first few pages to doodle, then came up with the idea of composing his own music. 

Using the sheets of music given to him, John retaught himself most of the notes and scores, and started coming up with his own little tunes and songs. After what he guessed was a couple of weeks, he'd actually written what he deemed a damn fine bit of work, and played it often. He tried to ignore the fact that he'd written the piece with Sherlock in mind, and it had turned out rather sad and a bit wistful, making his heart ache every time he thought of the detective. 

John missed Sherlock terribly. Life as a hostage was so _boring_. The Woman had only visited once, and John still had yet to figure out where the secret door into the room was. He figured it was somewhere in the bathroom, which he thought was odd, but couldn't find a seal or a crease in the wall that would betray a way out. 

So the doctor played the piano, wondered if Sherlock had noticed, or even cared that he had vanished, worried about his patients at the clinic, wondered if Sarah had hired someone else in his place, and tried not to think too much about the fact that rent on 221b had been due a few days ago. He practiced the piece he'd created, changing a few things here and there until he could play it smoothly and cleanly, and almost completely by ear. 

~*~

Sherlock was driving everyone at NSY completely mad. He hardly ever left the building except to follow up a lead on John's disappearance, and practically camped out in Lestrade's office, breathing downt he DI's neck every time a new tidbit of information came in. 

Greg became very familiar with the Holmes brothers as another week slipped by, and Sherlock took full advantage of Mycroft's resourses to find John, pick-pocketing his brother for his credit cards and other such things when the elder man didn't move fast enough for his liking. 

With the help of the homeless network, it was found that John was still somewhere in London, though nobody seemed to know just quite _where_. Sherlock lost weight, and his eyes became shadowed and his cheeks hollowed. He was smoking again, and rarely slept. Usually, when he did sleep, he was sitting in one of the chairs in Lestrade's office, sulking, until he slipped into unconciousness. But eventually he woke again, and started terrorizing anyone and everyone that would stand still long enough for him to get within a couple feet of them. 

Lestrade was getting just a _little_ desperate to find John and get Sherlock out of his bloody building, but with every day that passed with not a word about the doctor or his whereabouts, the more the DI feared he was dead, and they were just looking for a body. 

~*~

Sherlock returned to 221b for the first time in several weeks and purposefully avoided Mrs. Hudson, heading straight upstairs to John's room. It was meticulously neat, everything in its place, his bed made with military corners. 

The detective threw himself onto the mattress and buried his face in the pillow on the left side. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fading scent. 

_John._

Sherlock's head seemed to be spiraling out of control; he wanted John back in his life. How had he ever functioned without him? It was even worse now than it had been before, since he was hesitant to enter his mind palace. The lure of his Heart Room was strong, and painful. 

Another breath. 

_John._

~*~

_Sherlock._

John woke suddenly, his eyes flying open to see the simple, neutrally lighted room that had become his prison. According to the clock, it was around 6:35, and he sighed, sliding out from under the sheets to sit on the edge. He was becoming very restless, and suspected that he was starting to suffer from isolation and perhaps cabin fever. He wanted out. More importantly, he wanted Sherlock. He wanted to see him, to know that everything was going to be okay, just because Sherlock was there and they would protect and watch over each other, no matter what had been said in the past. 

_I never want anything special with someone like you!_

John flinched. He'd been such a fool. What if Sherlock wasn't even looking for him? If Moriarty and the Woman had made it appear as if he'd just up and moved away, Sherlock, surely, would let him go, especially after a row like that. But Irene Adler had spoken of burning the heart out of Sherlock. Were they stretching this out just to make Sherlock _suffer?_

If John were to die, would all this end? Would Sherlock be free? Free of all the liability of feelings, free to escape or even defeat the consulting criminal once and for all, simply because it meant that Sherlock had nothing left to lose? 

No. Sherlock had more than John, and the doctor knew it. Despite his coarse way of dealing with people, his childish behavior and superiority complex, Sherlock cared. He didn't necessarily do it the way John did, and most certainly didn't let it rise to the surface all that often, but Sherlock was a great man. And even if no one else was convinced of it, John thought he was a good one. Or very close to it. Close enough that even if Sherlock didn't have John, he still had others that could be used against him. He had Molly. And Lestrade. And Mycroft, though John didn't think that Moriarty would be quite so audatious as to threaten the older Holmes. Better that it was John, who had half a brain in his head, according to Sherlock, and might be able to get himself out of this on his own, if he were patient. 

~*~

John only had to wait a couple of days. 

He was playing the piano again, trying to come up with a new piece, but his mind was so focused on Sherlock that he couldn't help but play the song he'd written for him. 

"That's beautiful, Doctor Watson," said a voice from behind him, sweet and sultry. John turned around to see the Woman leaning against the far wall, her dark hair cascading around her shoulders, stark against the white, one-strap dress she wore that fell to about mid-thigh. 

"I suppose I should thank you, but I really don't care what you think of it to begin with," John said stonily, glaring at her. Her mouth turned up in one corner, amusement flicking across her features. 

"Now, don't be such a spoil sport," Irene said, standing straight to walk across the carpet towards him, her pale, strappy heels making her legs seem like they went on forever. "I was trying to compliment you. I wasn't aware you played." 

"I don't." 

"But clearly, you _do_. That's an orginal piece, is it not?" Irene leaned against the post of the bed, and John gritted his teeth. The desire to free himself by threatening her was at war with his morals in his head. The doctor knew he could kill her, if he really wanted to, if he really tried. He was more than proficient in hand-to-hand combat, and even though Irene Adler was a twisted sort of dangerous, he was positive that he would be able to get her into a deadly lock or hold. But that was only if she came within arms reach, which she had not. 

"Yes." John's answer was short and hard, and Irene's mouth twitched.

"This wasn't my idea, you know." Irene examined her nails, almost distantly. "I was in South America, tanning on a beautiful beach, surrounded by beautiful people, and....well. Jim Moriarty. Nobody can hide from that man forever. And he's so desperate for Sherlock's attention, it's like an obsession. It's all that matters now." John frowned at her, and stood, trying for his full height. Even if she hadn't been wearing stilletos, he was pretty sure Ms. Adler would have been taller than him. Damn, he hated his below-average stature sometimes. 

"That doesn't change anything," John said, quietly. "You still drugged me and kidnapped me and held me against my will. And when Sherlock finds me-" Irene laughed, and John scowled. 

"Darling, please. Sherlock will only find you if we decide to use you after all. At the moment, you're more a distraction for bigger plans," the Woman tilted her head, looking up and down. "You know, it's been so long since I last had a soilder. They're always so interesting, the tough, strong men who've seen blood and death and war. They always like something....a little freakish." John's stomach lurched at her blatant reference to one of Sherlock's more common labels. A snarl appeared on the doctor's face, and he lunged forward, prepared to grab her and slam her against the wall, to _kill_ her if it meant getting back to Sherlock. 

But the Woman took a quick step back and pulled a small handgun from a holster on her thigh where the fall of her dress had hidden it. 

When John jerked to a stop, the barrel was aligned with his forehead. 

"Don't misjudge me, Doctor Watson," Irene Adler said softly. "Jimmy may not like getting his hands dirty, but, well....I live off such things. If you ever try something like that again, I'll shoot you where you stand." John glared at her, and she smiled, her blood-red lips curving elegantly upwards. "I can see why he likes you. There's something about you, Doctor Watson. I don't know what it is. But there's something. And I know that he sees it, too." 

"You're underestimating him," John growled, not backing down from the barrel pointed at the frontal lobe of his brain behind his skull and skin. 

"I doubt that. Sherlock Holmes may be a genius, but Jim Moriarty...well, he left the world of geniuses behind a long time ago."


	15. Listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is much longer, and I hope you enjoy it! :)

Sherlock had taped and pinned everything he had about John's disappearance on the wall in the main room of 221b, staring at it from his chair. His fingers steapled beneath his chin, the detective stared and stared, letting his mind run over the facts and clues and speculations over and over. 

First was the note that he'd found on the front door of 221b. 

_I will burn the heart out of you, Sherlock Holmes._

_< 3_

And the lipstick kiss beneath it. 

Sherlock glared, examining the type of paper and the style, the differences between two people's handwriting. The paper was plain, everyday printer paper, the ink from a fountain pen. The first line was a message from Moriarty, he was sure of it. After all, the man had said that to him in their first meeting. But the heart beneath it and the lipstick kiss, those were very Irene Adler, and _that_ , more than anything, made him absolutely furious, a strange sensation for him. He rarely became truly angry, usually it was just irritation or contempt. But _this,_ this was fury, and it was new, and a little disconcerning. So Sherlock put it aside, and moved onto the next bit of evidence. 

The note he'd recieved from the homeless network after putting the word out. 

_missing jw in london_

Frustratingly large area to search effectively, London. The city was large and hugely populated, and it wasn't like they could search the buildings and roads inch my inch and slowly evacuate every single person in order to find John. 

And then, just a couple of days ago, delivered to the NSY building, directly to Lestrade's office, in fact, had been a small, brown package with a lipstick kiss on the wrapping. The DI had insisted on having it thoroughly checked for explosives or any other such nonsense (or so Sherlock had felt) until Lestrade deemed it safe to open. It didn't hold much. A lock of John's short, blonde hair, sealed within a miniature plastic baggie, and a small notebook, filled with what Sherlock was positive was John's doodles and scribbles. 

When he had first opened it, he'd almost ripped it in half, he'd gripped it so hard. Because this here, _this book_ was _proof_ that John was alive, that John _wasn't_ lying in a shallow grave somewhere. 

It took a few hours for Sherlock to move past that and stop harrassing everyone to find out where the package came from. When his chase after the post man and a few people who'd seen the package brought in came up with little to nothing, he actually turned to what was in the book. 

The first few pages were random doodles and scribbles, but Sherlock became very excited while looking them over. John had drawn his surroundings. They were crude and simple, but Sherlock deduced that he was in a room with no windows or doors, and there was a piano in the room. This was further confirmed when he discovered the rest of the book was filled with basic scores for piano music, and one long song that had a single word scribbled at the top of the first page: 

_-SHERLOCK-_

~*~

John was angry. Not only had Irene isulted Sherlock and threatened him, the damn Woman had taken his _notebook!_ She'd hit him with another shot of whatever the hell drug it was, knocking him into semiconciousness on the floor. He'd cursed and kicked himself for days for not being able to summon enough willpower to see how she got in and out of the room. 

A new notebook turned up, and he rewrote down his one song that reminded him of Sherlock before he lost it all, and spent a while practicing it again until he had it all back.   
John took to sleeping for more than twelve hours for every twenty-four, trying to pass the time, waiting for Irene to come back. This time, regardless of hidden guns or needles, he _would_ find the way out, even if he died in the attempt. 

~*~

Irene did not come back. 

Frustrated, John practiced piano, doodled some more, and even went so far as to draw on the walls, hoping to lure her back into the room to stop his destructive behavior. John tried dismantling the shower, the toilet, the bed, the sink, anything he could that he thought would help him break through the wall, but there were no tools, and he had little success. 

He came up with another small piece in the next two weeks, and then noticed that he was slowly losing weight. He examined himself with his hands and eyes, and guessed that he'd lost about nine pounds, perhaps eleven at most. He did only find food in his room once or twice a day, usually consisting of a large plastic cup of water, a meat and cheese sandwich, and some form of slightly gooey vegetable. 

John estimated that he'd been in the hands of Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty for about two months now, and he was growing very tired of imprisionment. 

It was also about this time that John became fearful that Sherlock actually wasn't searching for him. 

~*~

Sherlock ran through the song over and over in his head, trying to imagine what it would sound like, but the only instrument he was proficient enough to play was the violin, and this piece was not meant for that. So Sherlock moved on, checking the book for anything, anything at all, that might lead him to where the doctor was hidden. He'd put out another desperate message to the homeless network a few hours ago, and glanced out his window every few minutes, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ for someone to show up on and lean on his gate, asking passerby for spare change. But the hours passed and no one showed. He detested waiting.

So Sherlock went to St. Bart's, and checked the book for fingerprints and hair and any clues about where it might of come from, how it might have been delievered to the post office without anyone seeing Irene Adler or Moriarty. But then, the consulting criminal had lots of little friends. It wouldn't have been hard to get the package delievered by someone completely anonymous. But the lipstick kiss was completely intact, carefully unsmudged by handling or stacking. Which meant it was unlikely a lackey or a innocent worker that had handled the packaging. 

Frustrated, Sherlock spun away from the microscope and flipped through the book again, trying to find something, anything, that would lead him to John. 

But there was nothing. 

~*~

Weary and still coming up with zero results, Sherlock allowed Molly to awkwardly shoo him out of the hospital, and the detective took a cab home. He pestered Lestrade for any more details, recieved an irritated reply, and debated texting Mycroft to see if his connections had come up with anything. But Sherlock put that off when he spotted the woman in the tatty coat sitting outside 221b. Throwing a handful of notes at the cabby, Sherlock jumped out and strode up to her. 

"Any spare change, sir?" she asked, her hollowed eyes sparkling at him from under her hat. Sherlock was irritated when he noticed that it was a ratty deerstalker, and he was sure she'd worn it on purpose. 

"Perhaps, Jeany," Sherlock said softly. "Anything? Anything at all?" 

"Enough for a cuppa?" she replied, revealing a heavily palmed piece of paper. "Corrie got right banged up for this, sir." Sherlock pressed fifty quid into her hand and took the note, nodding and heading up into the flat. As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock tore the note open eagerly, his eyes scanning the words upon it. 

_St. John Street #27_

_Your eyes will not help you this time, Mr. Holmes._

_You will not see and know._

  
_You must listen._

An address. Sherlock let out a hiss of excitment, and almost bolted for the door, eager to find John and free him. But something made him take pause and reread the note. 

_You will not see._

_You must listen._

Much of Sherlock's abilities came from his sight, his ability to see and observe and learn and make jumps and leaps of dedcutions, it all came from his eyes. But there were moments, moments when he wanted to truly think, when he closed his eyes and just....

Sherlock's eyes fell on his violin, resting against the stand by the window. 

....listened. 

~*~

Sherlock rushed ahead without bothering to tell even Mrs. Hudson that he was leaving, that he'd finally found it, the place where they were keeping John. He couldn't even wait a moment longer to send even a single text. The only thing he'd paused to grab was his violin case, placeing his instrument carefully among the velvet lining, with the bow in its place beside it. Then he strapped it to his back, and left 221b Baker Street, hailing a cab. 

He arrived at St. Johns Street #27 within a manner of minutes. It was only around eleven thirty at night, and Sherlock had the cabby drop him off a couple of blocks short of the address. He then made his way along the lane as discreetly as possible, trying to blend into the faces of buildings and small knots of people still wandering the street. 

#27 was a tall, narrow building with few windows, and appeared to be an interior design store. Sherlock checked the door, and found it locked. Glancing around, he slipped into the alley beside the store and looked for another way in. The back door was secured by a small chain, which he quickly broke, and then crept inside. 

He was in a back storage room, full of crates and boxes. The detective slowly made his way through the room to the door on the other side, where he found the main store, which was full of set-up living rooms and kitchens, all with some sort of wood theme to them. 

Sherlock found a door that led upstairs and slowly made his way up them, straining his ears. He heard voices. A low, gruff man's voice, and a sultry woman's, the latter of which he would have known anywhere. _Irene._

Sherlock's hands curled into fists, and he quickly emerged onto the second landing. He was lucky. The man ( _tall, muscular around the arms and legs but fat around the middle; retired security guard or mercenary_ ) had his back to him, and Sherlock was able to land a sharp blow to the man's head and neck, knocking him out. Irene didn't even flinch, but her mouth curved up into a delighted smile. 

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes. How nice to see you again," she smiled, crossing her arms below her breasts and leaning against the wall as her companion collapsed into a heap on the floor. Her hair was swept up over her ears and curled behind her head, making her neck seem long and elegant above the white coat and dress she wore with a pair of black pumps. 

"Sorry I can't say the same," Sherlock said softly, stepping over the other man's limp body. Irene smiled at him. 

"You're here for your John. I should have known that little sweet thing shouldn't have had the quid to buy my services," the Woman smirked and ran a few fingers along the line of her throat. 

"You made a mistake, coming back," Sherlock hissed. "You should have stayed in Brazil where I left you." 

"I would have, had it been up to me," Irene said, tilting her head to the left, her eyes flicking up and down his figure. "You're different from the last time I saw you. Of course, you look a right mess at the moment, but...there's something...about...your eyes....oh." Her mouth curved up into a grin. "So you do love him, don't you? How adorable. It's too bad....he would have made such a wonderful pet. So much fire in him, have you noticed? He'd do anything for you..." Irene leaned closer, her breath ghosting over his cheek, his ear. Her fingers gently carressed his coat sleeve, between his shoulder and elbow. 

"You must think me a fool," Sherlock whispered, his right hand flying up to catch her wrist. "If you believe that I will fall for you little trick _twice_." He pulled her fingers away from his arm, revealing the needle strapped against her middle finger, probably dipped in some sort of drug. Her eyes widened a bit as he forced her fingers to curl until the tip of the needle broke the skin of her palm. She sighed. 

"Too bad," she breathed. "You'll never find him, not without me. Even Jimmy doesn't know...how to get...into the...room..." The Woman slowly relaxed, her legs giving out and causing her slump against the detective. Sherlock curled his lip and lowered her to the floor, laying her beside the unconcious ex-mercenary. And then he continued on. He searched behind every door, every wall hanging, _everywhere_. He searched. And searched.

And he found nothing. 

But he saw that there was something odd about the fourth floor. The rooms were too small, the halls too narrow. 

There was a hidden room. 

Sherlock examined the walls, running his fingers over the paper and panelling, searching for a crack or a seam, his nose inches from the surface as he searched. He looked for an hour, and found nothing. 

Frustrated, he rocked back on his heels and glared at the wall as if it would wither under his gaze and reveal the door leading to John. But that never happened, so Sherlock delved into the first layer of his mind, not so deep as to enter his mind palace, and thought. 

_Dispreportionate walls. Hidden room. John. The Woman. Moriarty. John. Hidden room. No way in. But there must be a way in. There must be, there must be....but I can't see it...oh._

_Your eyes will not help you this time, Mr. Holmes._

_You will not see and know._

_You must listen._

_Oh._

Sherlock tilted his head up and back, closing his eyes. And he listened. 

The creak of the building as it settled. The whoosh of the air conditioner clicking on. The sloppy breathing of the unconcious ex-mercenary and the light snore of Irene Adler a short distance away. 

And...

...the soft notes of a piano. 

Sherlock jerked, and listened harder. Walking slowly and carefully, he followed the music to its sourse, where he found a full length mirror. He inspected the edges of it, but found no latch or button to shift it. But he could still hear the music. And after another moment of listening, he realized that it was the same song he'd found in John's notebook titled with his name. Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat, and he quickly pulled his violin off his back. If he could hear John playing the piano, maybe John could hear him. So Sherlock opened the case and pulled out his instrument. And then he tucked it under his chin and began to slowly pull the bow across the strings. 

He dove deeper into his mind palace, faintly aware of his body moving as he played, and then he stood half in his Heart Room, and half in the real world. 

And Sherlock Holmes played his Heart out for John. 

~*~

John couldn't sleep. He sat at the piano and gently tapped at the keys, trying to lull himself into a sleepy enough state to collapse onto the bed. He played his song for Sherlock, trying to relax, trying to convince himself that the detective was coming for him. But no matter how much he played, despair filled his soul, and he feared that he would die here, without ever seeing Sherlock again. He sighed, reaching the end of the song. 

And then he started playing again. 

Soft chords and thrums, the gentle sound of the piano swelled. And then, a new sound. 

A violin. 

John's heart jumped in his chest, but he shook his head, knowing it was probably just another one of his daydreams, wishing for Sherlock to be here. He continued to play, closing his eyes and focusing on the keys, trying to will the violin's voice away. But the longer that John played, the more real the violin sounded. 

And when John stopped playing, the violin went on for several seconds before fading. 

John felt his heart kick into high gear as hope swelled in his chest cavity. 

"Sherlock?" he called, hesitant. There was no answer. "Sherlock!" John shouted, desperate for an answer, any answer at all, even if it were just Irene Adler laughing at him. 

But then...

_"John?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the song that Sherlock and John play together: 
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxX8279Onbo


	16. Haphazard

John wanted to cry. 

So he did. 

He burst into tears and jumped to his feet, unsure what to do after that. 

"Sherlock!" he yelled again, unable to help himself. "Where are you?" 

"Outside. Where is my voice coming from?" was the faint reply. 

"Keep talking to me!" John shouted, rushing to the center of the room and shutting his eyes. It would be easiest to pinpoint the sourse of Sherlock's voice from there. 

"What should I say?" 

"Anything!" 

Silence for a moment, and John almost panicked. Had some of Moriarty's goons found him? Several terrible scenarios ran through his head, each more awful than the last, before the detective finally spoke again. 

"I missed you, John." the doctor's heart stuttered at Sherlock's words, and he did his best to ignore it and concerntrate. "I was...so angry. And so hurt. What you said to me...well. Countless others have said those words, more or less, and I just...I never expected them from you. You were the first to really call me fantastic or amazing or brilliant. Even...my mother. Mycroft. My own family thought I was strange. Yes, my brother and parents were detatched and distant and all of them were smart in their own way, but I was always...more. I graduated high school before Mycroft was out of secondary. I isolated myself. Primary school had been so awful, so torturous...the title Freak has followed me relentlessly, ever since I was old enough to speak. Through school, and even my work...and when you...well. When you rejected me so...bluntly, it came as a shock. I wasn't expecting it, though I should have. There are exceptions to every rule, John, but I shouldn't have expected so much of you." 

"Oh, Sherlock." John had found the hidden door, or at least its location. It was just slightly to the left of the door into the bathroom, and he still couldn't find a way to open the damn thing. "I found it. But I can't....God, I can't get to you." 

"John....I....I don't...ah. Here it is." There was an odd thumping noise, and a soft click, and the wall moved. It shifted inward and slid slightly to the side, creating a crack about two inches wide. John grabbed it and shoved it aside, and the section of wall slid easily, and then Sherlock was _there_. 

He looked awful. 

The detective had dropped a significant amount of weight, and his eyes and cheeks were hollowed, haunted, even. He smelled faintly of cigarrettes, and his hair was in a rather attractive state of disarray, while his clothes were slightly rumpled. 

"John." The detective's voice was a little hoarse, like he'd been crying. 

"Sherlock," John took a small step forward, and the detective couldn't hold it in anymore. He ran forward, and threw his arms around the doctor's neck. John grabbed him and gasped, "I'm sorry. I'm so _sorry_. I didn't mean it, Sherlock, I never wanted to hurt you. But I was so scared, and I didn't _understand,_ and I-I-" John's apology was swallowed up by his big gulping sobs, and they slowly slid to their knees on the floor of the plain bedroom, clinging to each other. Sherlock would never admit it, but he, too, was crying into John's frumpy t-shirt collar. 

~*~

They left the interior design store, and John felt slightly surreal, sitting in the cab next to Sherlock. He sat in the middle of the bucket seat instead of next to the door, wanting to be as close to the other man as possible, trying to convince himself that this was actually real, and not some cruel dream that he could wake up from any second. 

Sherlock was on the phone with Lestrade, who sounded absolutely livid over the speaker. 

"Lestrade. I found John." 

_"Really? Fuck, Sherlock! Where is he?"_

"In the cab with me." 

_"......you went without us. Again."_ And then there was a long rant full of swearing and threats and anger and generally Lestrade expressing his concern and fear for the two men that he considered some of his closest friends. 

"Alright, enough, Lestrade, before you have an aneurysm," Sherlock snapped, scowling at his phone. "But I think you might want to send some of your officers out to #27 St. Johns Street." 

_"What? Why?"_

"Because you'll find Irene Adler and another man there, unconcious, who need to be taken into custody and experience some...police brutality." Sherlock's voice was a little cold. 

_"Irene Adler? I thought she was in America?"_

"Apparently not," Sherlock said snidely. 

_"Alright. Do you want me to send a car over to the flat?"_

"I don't think Moriarty will bother us for now. I don't think he even knows John is gone yet. We should be okay, as long as we stay alert." 

_"If you're sure..."_

"I am." 

~*~

There was nothing more wonderful than falling into your own bed after two months of sleeping in a stranger's. John curled around his pillows and blankets and sighed. It was the second-best feeling of the night (the first had been Sherlock opening that damn door, and the third breathing the air of out-of-doors London), and he savored it. 

But then he noticed that the sheets smelled a little off, and his bedding was in a rather shameful state of disarray, which was _not_ how he had left it. 

Completely bemused, John sat up and stared at his messy bed, trying to figure out how in the world it had gotten that way. 

"It was me," John nearly jumped a mile when Sherlock spoke from the doorway. The doctor turned to see the detective leaning against the doorframe, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. "I...well. I took to sleeping in your bed, while you were gone. When I _did_ sleep, that is." Spots of color appeared high on Sherlock's cheeks as he spoke, and John felt himself flush deeply as well. 

"I...um." John couldn't think of anything to say. Sherlock glanced up shyly from under his thick curls, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

"I told you I...I missed you. And it helped me think," Sherlock mumbled, tucking his face into his shoulder in an embarrassed sort of way. 

"Ah...I see..." John muttered, smoothing out his pillow and slowly pulling it to his face. Breathing deeply, he noticed that his own familiar scent, which he could only smell if he were looking for it, was overshadowed by Sherlock's own smell, that of expensive shampoo and tabacco and for some odd reason, peppermint. When John looked up from the pillow, Sherlock was staring at him. The doctor blushed a bit, and set aside the pillow to slide out of bed and stand on the floor. 

"John, I..." Sherlock began, then paused, as if the words had been caught in his throat. The detective clenched his hands into fists. "I still....don't know how to say it." 

"That's okay. It's okay, Sherlock," John said, slowly approaching the detective with his hands splayed open. "It's all fine." Sherlock looked up from where he was glaring a hole in the floor to stare at John's face. His gaze softened, and when the doctor came close enough, Sherlock reached up and stroked a long, pale finger from John's temple to his chin. He didn't say anything. Just gently repeated the motion a second time, and John closed his eyes, reaching up with one hand to press Sherlock's palm against his face. The doctor was still uncertain and a little frightened by the jackrabbits having a jumprope competition in his abdomen, but he knew for a fact that he would never say _anything_ to hurt this wonderful, brilliant man ever again. 

~*~

It took a couple of days for Sherlock to become convinced that John wasn't going to disappear from under his nose. The detective followed John everywhere, from accompanying him to the Tesco and sulking in the rows of milk and cheese, to stalking him to work and frightening a couple of his patients into tears; he even to the point of following him into the loo a couple of times. 

John tolerated it because it was such a glorious feeling to be able to move about beyond a bedroom and a bathroom again, and he treasured every moment of it. Lestrade had informed them that Irene Adler had avoided custody, and the doctor often woke from a nightmare that Sherlock rescuing him had just been a dream, leaving him shouting at the top of his lungs for the detective as he woke up. Sherlock always came running, heartlessly abandoning any experiment he had going in order to throw himself around John and comfort him. 

So it was only a little shocking when John woke late on his fifth day back, screaming for Sherlock, and the detective came skiddng into John's room in his blue robe, his hair full of suds from the shower. 

"John, John, it's alright!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing the doctor and shaking him before grabbing the doctor's flailing arms. "It's alright, it's alright, I'm here." 

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," John gasped, knotting his hands in the blue silk. "I woke up in that room and you weren't there, you weren't there-" 

"No, John, no, I'm here, I'm right here, alright? Deep breaths. It was just a dream, and you've proven more than capable of overcoming nightmares before. Calm down, John, it's alright. It's alright." After a couple minutes of muttering and gasping, John had returned enough to himself to notice something he initially hadn't when the detective had jumped into his bed. 

Sherlock was naked under the robe, which was haphazardly tied at best. 

"Uh...ahm, Sherlock...um." John stammered and tried to get his brain to restart after the shock of seeing Sherlock's bare chest and stomach and _thank God for that fold of cloth_ and then miles and miles of pale legs covered by a dark dusting of hair, every inch of him wet and dripping suds onto John's blankets. 

"Hm? Oh. _Oh_." Sherlock jumped out of the bed and tightened his robe around himself until he was completely hidden from collarbone to ankles, his cheekbones and the tips of his ears stained red. "I apologize. In my haste, I didn't think to...you know. Pants." Sherlock smirked a bit, his blush bleeding from his cheekbones into the rest of his face. John nodded dumbly, trying to not think at all about the fact that under the thick afgan and sheets, he was sporting a rather _I'm-looking-at-my-half-mad-flatmate-in-a-totally-inappropriate-kind-of-way_ erection. 

As John continued to fail to say anything, Sherlock edged awkwardly out of the room, muttering about finishing his shower. 

John let him go, awkwardly trying to decide if he should take care of his "problem," or tough it out. He almost went with the latter, but then the image of Sherlock in that robe, almost naked as he held the doctor, soothing him...God. John shuddered and flopped back onto his bed, slipping a hand under the waistband of his pants. He gasped at the shot of pleasure, and gritted his teeth. His door was open, and though Sherlock was probably downstairs in the shower already, you never knew with the detective. John fought against the soft sounds that bubbled up his throat as he slowly stroked, arching a bit at the teasing of his own hand. It felt nice, but he wanted _more._

John shut his eyes and flicked through his mental stash of images and memories of the women he'd taken to bed, still fighting a bit against the main cause of his arousal. But after the third fantasy in a row fell through, John allowed his mind to wander where he was nervous to let it. 

_Dark, curly hair falling across a pale forehead. Sparkling, strange-but-wonderfully-enchanting green eyes. A thin mouth that curved into a smirk or a frown more often than a smile. Flat, lean muscles and broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist. Legs that seemed to go on for ages. Long fingered hands that were more likely to be holding a beaker of corrosives than a cup of tea._

" _Sherlock_ ," John gasped as his body bowed up off the bed, a shuddering, pulsing sensation of pure pleasure spiralling through his body, far more intense than the couple of awkward, self-concious bouts of masturbation during his time in captivity, and, if his memory served correctly, several of the ones _before_ Irene Adler had snatched him out of that damned pub. 

Panting, John came back down, his heart thudding in his chest and his body still shivering a bit with the following shudders of sensation. Grimacing at the mess he'd made of his pants and stomach and hand and bedsheets, he grabbed a couple of tissues out of his bedside drawer and mopped himself up as he got up to get ready for his day. 

He never heard the soft footsteps retreating back downstairs. 

~*~

Sherlock leaned against the wall outside John's bedroom door, his heart pounding loudly in his chest. He cursed the excited organ; it was interfering with his ability to hear John's soft pants and muffled groans. He was positive the other man was masturbating, and Sherlock was torn between walking back into the room and pouncing on the doctor in a show of confidence, or high-tailing it down the stairs as fast and silently as his legs would carry him. 

Caught between two powerful urges, the detective found himself suspended between them, frozen in a state of near-painful arousal and fear. He wanted John, wanted him badly, but had absolutely _no idea_ as to how to go about doing anything to _get_ there. Sherlock knew the mechanics of sex, the science behind it, the chemicals and hormones released when the act was participated in. Sherlock knew _about_ sex, and he'd boasted to Mycroft that sex didn't alarm him, and to be honest, in general, it really didn't. 

But the idea of trying to propose pursuing a sexual relationship with John (whom he was bemusingly in love with) scared the shit out of the usually-unflappable Sherlock Holmes. 

And then the detective heard something that almost made him come right all over the inside of his tightly-cinched robe. 

_"Sherlock...!"_

John. 

John, masturbating. Calling out...Sherlock's name. 

Oh, _God._

Color flooded the detective's face, turning him crimson from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. Or, at least, it felt that way. 

After a second, Sherlock regained enough of his scrambled brain to realize that John was getting out of bed, and if he didn't move _right now_ , John would find him standing outside his door, naked except for his thin robe, with suds dripping from his hair, and a rather embarrassing hard-on. 

So the detective bolted for the stairs, using every drop of stealth he possessed to make it without John hearing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, I just noticed that this story reached 16 chapters...O.o I never actually expected it to get this long...o.O I'm feeling kind of proud of myself for getting this far, but I'm wondering if I'm stretching it a bit for my first Johnlock fic ever. Drop me a comment and let me know how I'm doing? I love comments. Comments are my driving force. :3


	17. Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I took a bit of creative licence in this chapter and replaced the table in John and Sherlock's flat with a disused piano. :3 Mostly because I can't quite give up the idea of John playing piano.  
> Also, I found out earlier today that Martin Freeman actually plays piano in real life. At least, according to Wikipedia he does.

When John made it downstairs, Sherlock was out of the shower and perched on the couch with his laptop in front of him. John flushed deeply at the sight of the man he'd just been thinking rather unclean thoughts about, and quickly went into the kitchen and prepared tea with shaking hands. 

It was still a little strange, being free of the Woman and Moriarty. Even though John had never gone through nothing particularly traumatic, it was odd trying to get back to his natural rhythm of making tea, toast, and moving about the flat. He was eccstatic to be free, of course, but he did miss the piano, just a little. There was one in the flat, but it was covered in paper and boxes of case files that Sherlock had solved and insisted on keeping for whatever reason. It wasn't as if he didn't have a perfect mental copy of them in his mind palace. 

After John delayed his return to the main room as long as he could, he went out to his chair and sat with his tea, eyeing Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes. The man was focused intently on his laptop, and had barely glanced over at John as he'd entered the room. The doctor couldn't tell if he was imagining it or not, but was there a tinge of pink on Sherlock's cheekbones? He couldn't be sure. 

Silence filled the flat, and though it was a comfortable, natural silence, it was underlaid with a current of tension that neither man was sure they weren't just imagining. 

John considered turning on the telly, but wrote it off, and tried to think of a book he might be interested in reading. Or maybe he should update his blog. God knew Harry had probably spammed everything he had ( _emails, comments, his inbox, dear lord_ ) once she found out he'd gone missing. His phone alone was full to capacity of missed texts and voicemails. His blog would be no better. So John put that off until later, too. 

His eyes fell on the paper and box covered piano. 

And he made a desicion. 

Sherlock barely noticed when John got up and started stacking and shuffling the papers and files until the piano was visible again. John tried to see what had the detective's sole attention, but the print on the internet window was small, and he couldn't make out what was on the page without getting close enough for Sherlock to know what he was doing. So John finished up clearing the piano, and then sat down before it. 

It was much larger than the small piano in the Other Room, and little more worn-down, but in the way that suggested it had been played often and lovingly by the tenants before them. And John intended to give the older instrument voice again. 

Slowly, he closed his eyes and tried to call up the notes to his song about the man sitting only a few feet from him. John swallowed around a nervous lump in his throat, and opened his eyes. 

He began to play. 

Sherlock, who had been typing something on his laptop, slowly stopped. John continued to play. Soft, gentle presses of the keys, drawing out equally soft and sweet notes from the strings inside the heart of the instrument. Slowly, John's playing reached where Sherlock had joined the last time he had played, and tapered off into silence. And then he started over from the beginning. 

John heard the detective shift slightly behind him, and then, once more, the violin's voice joined the piano's. 

They played together for several minutes, and John felt his heart soar with the violin as his fingers danced over the piano keys. When they reached the end of the song, John's hands stilled, and he longed to turn and face the detective, but his heart was galloping in his chest with fear, and he felt himself suddenly plagued by doubts. What if, even should he try to initiate something between them, Sherlock was still too hurt by his cruel words, what if this song, which held all of John's confusion and affection, was not enough to convey what he felt? 

The doctor could feel his grip on his usually very well-seated sense of confidence slipping away rather quickly. 

And then something softly, gently, hesitantly touched the top of his spine. John stiffened a bit in surprise, and the touch vanished. He didn't relax, though, and after a moment, the touch returned, a little more firmly. John recognized the tip of Sherlock's violin bow as it slowly stroked down along his spine, tracing the curves of his vertebrae, before ending at the top of the doctor's jeans. And then it was gone again. John made a soft sound, unaware that he'd even be about to do so, and he felt something change in the air. The tip of the bow returned, going even more slowly as it dragged down over his jumper, making him shiver a bit. And then it was gone again. 

Then there was another touch, that of Sherlock's hand gently stroking along John's spine, as if facinated by it. John arched a little at the touch, and the detective paused momentarily in his stroking before continuing. But instead of disappearing once his touch reached the base of John's spine, Sherlock's hand slid around the doctor's hip, his other hand appearing on the opposite side. The detective slowly, hesitantly, wrapped his arms around John's middle, and John realized that the younger man was kneeling on the floor behind the bench. Sherlock pulled John close to his chest, his face resting against the doctor's shoulder blade. John slowly raised his hand and then laid it along the long-fingers of the detective that were resting on his stomach and chest. Sherlock let out a soft sigh, and their fingers twined together. _Warm._

After about a minute, Sherlock loosened his hold on John, and sat back on his heels as the doctor turned to face him. The detective was pink in the cheeks and ears, and John knew he himself was sporting a bit of color, but tried not to think about it too much. 

"John..." Sherlock said softly. "I don't know...how to say it in words. But...I..." 

John smiled. And slowly, he cupped Sherlock's face in his left hand, and the detective's eyes flicked from John's eyes to his lips, and unconciously licked his own. John swallowed, and leaned down. The were finally going to kiss, and this time, not because there was pressure on them to do so, not because Sherlock had teased and tortured him, it was because they had both peeled back the layers of their hearts to find each other at the center. 

John felt Sherlock's breath ghost over his lips, and two pairs of eyes began to slide closed. _So close...._

And then....

"Boys! I heard the most lovely piano and violin coming from your flat. Was that you playing?" Mrs. Hudson appeared in the door, not bothering to knock or announce herself in any way. John and Sherlock sprang apart like teenagers caught snogging behind the school bleachers, causing the doctor to hit the piano keys with his elbow, making the poor thing protest loudly; while Sherlock landed in a rather uncomfortable-looking position on the floor, his face once more becoming reaquainted with their landlady's rug. 

"Ah, erm, yes, Mrs. Hudson, that was us playing," John stammered, blushing deeply. Why hadn't he realized that she would hear the piano? She always heard Sherlock while he was composing, and of _course_ she would come to investigate; after all, he'd never told her he'd played as a child. 

"It was beautiful, dear, I had no idea you could play so well," she said, noticing that there were several abandoned teacups and saucers lying around. "Oh, boys, you always leave such a mess..." she muttered, shaking her head and taking it upon herself to run the dishes. "Why don't you play it again for me while I'm picking up your mess? I'm only doing this since you've both had such a terrible couple of months, mind, I'm not your housekeeper." 

"Er, sure, of course, why not," John blabbed, trying to set his brain to rights. He glanced at Sherlock, who sat up and eyed him a moment before picking up his violin and walking over to the window on the other side of the piano. Clearing his throat a bit, John started playing again, trying to ignore the look Sherlock was giving him over his shoulder. 

_Hot._

John lowered his eyes to the keys and did his best to focus. After a moment, Sherlock joined in, and for the second time, their song swelled in the flat. 

John couldn't resist glancing up at Sherlock, who had was half-turned away from the window, his unfathomable eyes focused on the doctor. John blushed a bit as the detective bit his lip and looked away, continuing to pull his bow across the strings. John shifted a bit on the bench, realizing with a little touch of horror that he was starting to get an erection. 

John quickly began mentally _stomping_ on the rising sense of arousal, horrified at the thought that Mrs. Hudson-or somehow, worse, _Sherlock_ -might notice his reddened face and the growning tent in his trousers. He struggled to keep his playing clean, and was greatly relieved when the song finished, and swiftly walked moved over to his armchair, placing the union jack pillow in his lap to hide his attention-seeking crotch. Sherlock remained at the window, lowering his violin and not turning to face anyone else in the flat. 

"That was lovely, boys. Did you write that, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called from where she was drying the teacups. 

"No," the detective said, barely turning his head. "John did." 

~*~

Mrs. Hudson fussed a bit longer, Sherlock sulked where he stood staring out the window, and John sat uncomfortably in his armchair with the pillow in his lap. The doctor was trying very hard to keep his eyes away from the detective's back (specifically, his back _side_ ) but slipped several times. Sherlock shifted about a bit, as if he could feel John's gaze, and the doctor bit his lip a bit as he looked away again.

 _So close,_ Sherlock thought despairingly. He'd be so _close!_ So close to kissing John again, so close to holding him in his arms instead of holding him down in the throes of a nightmare. And Mrs. Hudson. She was almost as bad as Molly. And then, having them play the Song again...dammit, Sherlock couldn't even turn around, embarrassed as he was. If he'd been wearing his bathrobe, he'd have had a chance at hiding the strain of his trouser-fronts, but as it was, he couldn't turn away from the bloody window. 

And even after Mrs. Hudson flitted off again, to go watch telly or clean her own flat, or something equally not-here, Sherlock couldn't get the courage up to turn and face John. He wanted the doctor, wanted him _badly_ , but was still thwarted by his inability to do anything about it. It was highly frustrating, and more than just a little annoying. 

He heard John shifting about in his armchair behind him, and Sherlock tried to think of a solution to his current predicament. He couldn't stand here forever, after all. And things were clearly coming to a head between him and John. Better to have the upper hand and jump the gun than be caught by surprise. 

But what if jumping the gun scared John off? Sherlock know John was developing something definently beyond friendship for him ( _evidence of the morning's masturbation_ ) but the detective had no idea if John would be ready to move that growing more-than-affection into actual, physical and emotional contact between them. 

The detective chewed his lip in frustration. He'd been in the process of researching how to confess one's love to another when John had started playing the piano. The old thing had sat unused ( _except for a landing strip for debris of multiple kinds_ ) that Sherlock had nearly deleted its existence. But as the music had filled the room, he'd felt his heart swell. It was the same song he'd used to find John in the hidden room. And when John had started over again, he hadn't been able to stop himself from joining him in song. 

There had been something so... _intimate_ about the duet, so much _deeper_ and _different_ from when he and Mycroft had been forced to play together as children (though Mycroft had chosen to play the clarinet; ridiculous instrument), and Sherlock couldn't quite fathom why. He knew that he himself was playing from his Heart Room, which now, strangely held the sound of John's piano playing when he entered it. The music he played on the violin was how he felt about John, but he couldn't tell if the song was also from John's heart on his part. And facing away from him, there was little he could deduce about the doctor, other than he was slightly uncomfortable. 

Sherlock sensed that they were standing on the edge of a precipice, and both of them were contemplating taking the leap, but neither was quite willing to be the first to jump.


	18. Scent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the long awaited chapter....sort of. Please don't hate me.

Sherlock turned himself a little, so that he could turn his head to look at John with revealing his rather obvious state of arousal. The doctor was sitting in his favorite armchair, with the union jack pillow placed firmly across his lap. There was a light flush in John's face and Sherlock quickly deduced what he could of John's state.

_Embarrassed, aroused, hesitating to take some sort of action, hiding something, staring at...Oh. He's...staring at my arse. How interesting._

John's eyes flicked up from Sherlock's backside to catch the detective watching him, a smirk on his lips. John flushed deeply, looking away and clearing his throat awkwardly. Sherlock's smirk got a bit bigger, and he set the violin down, but kept his bow in hand. Slowly, he backed away from the window until he was about even with John, who was watching him oddly. Sherlock would sometimes pace backwards when he was bored; hopefully the doctor wouldn't think too much about his behavior until later. 

As Sherlock walked backwards past John, the doctor shifted awkwardly in his seat, and the detective, on a spur of insight, extended the violin bow and drew in across John's cheekbone as he passed. John stilled and his mouth fell open in a small gasp. Sherlock paused in his walking, and traced the cricle of John's ear with the violin bow. The doctor shuddered, and Sherlock felt himself stiffen a bit more inside his trousers. 

"Sherlock," John breathed, clenching hard at the arms of his chair as Sherlock drew the tip of the bow down the back of John's neck, experimenting. The detective had the sudden urge to repeat the motion with his tongue. He almost let out a soft groan at the surge of heat that curled in his lower abdomen at the thought. 

"Yes, John?" Sherlock said, a little surprised by the slight breathlessness in his voice. Sherlock pressed the bow over John's shoulder and down his chest and stomach, taking a step closer to from where he stood behind John's chair to manage it. Then, with a careful flick of his bow, Sherlock sent the union jack pillow tumbling to the floor. The detective looked carefully over John's shoulder to see that John's trousers were stretched tight over his groin, outlining the obvious bulge of his erection. 

"Sherlock!" John gasped, quickly leaning forward and trying to conceal his state of arousal with his hands. But Sherlock didn't want him to do that. The detective wanted more. He wanted John. So he dropped his bow and grabbed John's shoulders, yanking him back into the chair. No longer hunched over, John tilted his head back to gape at the detective, his mouth open, cheeks flaming. Sherlock felt another hot twist in his belly. He wanted John. Wanted to take him, devour him, consume him. And he had no _idea_ how to. 

So Sherlock settled for taking what he knew of John, and lowered his mouth to the doctor's lips. 

~*~

John's brain shorted out when Sherlock kissed him. Every thought in his head died a quick death with little protest when the detective's mouth pressed over his own, upside down and from above, but John didn't give a rat's arse about the position. Sherlock was _kissing_ him. John reached up and grabbed the detective's curls, knotting his fingers in his hair in order to hold him in the kiss. John opened his mouth and slid his tongue between Sherlock's lips, tasting, exploring. Sherlock chased after John's tongue with his own when the doctor withdrew, probing into his mouth, running his tongue along John's teeth and tongue and the roof of his mouth. John groaned, and Sherlock clutched at John's jumper, feeling this unreasonable hunger bloom inside of him. 

John's heart was pounding in his chest, and he wanted _more_ , so much _more_ , but he didn't want to break the kiss in order to get it. At least not yet, anyway. 

Sherlock slid his hands from where they were knotted in the sleeves of John's jumper and slid them down the other man's chest, wondering how it would feel without the bothersome material in the way. Sherlock shuddered in need, and with a gasp, they broke away, Sherlock's hands only a few inches from when they'd been headed: the top of John's jeans. 

"Sherlock-I-I don't-I mean, I-" John stammered, staring up at the detective leaning over him. 

"Stop thinking, John," Sherlock chided, taking two steps and sliding around the side of the chair to stand in front of the doctor. "Your brain is full of too many chemicals and hormones right now to produce anything worth saying anyway." 

"Uh...okay," John gasped as Sherlock grabbed his arms and pulled him up and against his body. Sherlock groaned as he felt the doctor's chest and groin and legs press against his own, and ducked his head to kiss him again. John tasted like tea and toothpaste, oddly not as bad of a combination as one would think it would be. Sherlock ran his hands up John's arms to his neck, into the doctor's short blond hair. Sherlock rocked his hips gently into John, making the doctor moan a bit. A thrill rose in the detective, and he repeated the motion, a little more forcefully, thrusting his erection against John's stomach. The doctor broke the kiss with a strangled groan, his hands flying to Sherlock's dark top and fighting with the buttons until he got impatient and _yanked._

Sherlock's heart kicked into hyperdrive as the buttons burst from their fastenings and went flying, his shirt taking quite the mutilating by one randy John Hamish Watson. 

The doctor pushed at Sherlock until he stumbled backwards, finally landing on his arse on the couch. John climbed into the detective's lap, knees on either side of Sherlock's hips, knotting his hands in his dark hair and forcing his head back. John's mouth crashed into Sherlock's mouth, dominant, _demanding_ , forcing his tongue past the detective's lips and pushing deep, practically down his throat. Sherlock cried out and jerked his hips upward, making the doctor snarl and tug on his hair, fighting for dominance over Sherlock. The detective grabbed at John's hips, then slid his hands around to grope John's arse, making the doctor jump in surprise and his dominant attitude slip a bit. Sherlock seized the chance to surge upwards, heaving John forward and onto the coffee table, making the wood complain a little at the sudden burden of holding up two full grown men.  
But Sherlock couldn't have cared less if the damn thing had _collapsed_ beneath them. 

John writhed on his back as Sherlock attacked the doctor's throat, leaving a bright lovebite against the pale skin. The detective rutted against John eagerly, delighting in the wonderful world of friction against his aching cock. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer, faintly aware of some concern for the creaking table beneath them, but he eventually decided that he just _did not give a flying fuck_. He chose instead to focus on the delightful expanse of bared skin under his hands, sliding his palms over Sherlock's chest and back and arms, pushing off and throwing aside the ruined shirt. Sherlock laved attention on John's neck, stretching the collar of his jumper as far as it could go to gain access to his collarbone and a couple inches of chest. 

_Not enough!_ screamed Sherlock's long-neglected libido. _More! More John!_

The detective sat up, gasping for air, and grabbed the bottom of John's cable-knit atrocity, and pulled it up. After a struggle, it and the shirt beneath it came off, and Sherlock eagerly explored John's skin, with both hands and mouth. John cried out and jerked beneath the detective as Sherlock's tongue traced the intriguingly knotted and warped complexities of John's scar before moving on. Sherlock's fingers gently thumbed the tighened peaks of John's nipples, making the other man give a sharp groan and arch up into the touch. Sherlock lowered his mouth to John's skin, tasting, marveling at the texture and every new bit of data that he stashed away inside his mind palace to savour later. 

John could hardly process what was happening. _Good God, I'm headed fast for third base with bloody Sherlock Holmes._ The doctor yelped when the detective's lips landed on the curve of his hip, less than an inch above the edge of his jeans. He looked down to see Sherlock's eyes sparkling with mischief, while at the same time dark and wide with desire. John swallowed hard as Sherlock slowly lowered his face to nuzzle his abdomen, opening is mouth to nibble playfully as the fastening of his trousers. John let his head fall back, groaning. He felt more and more ready to burst with every kiss, every touch. Sherlock was driving him right about mad, and worse, he'd more than willingly submitted to the detective's attention, his typical dominant streak in bed slipping right away under those clever lips and fingers. 

And there was a loud buzzing, rumbling noise as Sherlock's phone announced a text, vibrating off the table and onto the floor next to them. 

Both men froze at the sound, staring at each other, then at the phone. It pinged pathetically. 

"Damn this world, and every imbecile in it thrice _over_ ," Sherlock swore, reaching over with one long-fingered hand and grabbing it. "Sorry, John." 

"No, please, go ahead," John rolled his eyes, his heart slowing down to something approaching less-than-a-hummingbird status. Sherlock opened the text, still scowling. 

**_Muder in Regent's Park. It's messy, Sherlock. Need you here. Now. } Lestrade._**

Sherlock, for the first time, silently cursed the criminals and murderers of London for commiting a crime. 

"Case?" John asked from beneath him. Sherlock looked down, and nearly chucked his mobile away. The doctor was heavily dishevelled, his hair sticking up all over the place, his lips kiss-swollen, and with bruises from Sherlock's mouth all along his neck and down his chest. 

_God, I want....I want to fucking ravish him, whatever the hell that entails for us._ Sherlock sighed, drawing a few fingers down the side of John's face. 

"I don't want to, but...I suppose we should postpone this encounter until further notice," the detective huffed, looking thoroughly put-out. John's mouth twitched up into a little half smile. 

"Alright," the doctor replied, butterflies fluttering in his gut at the thought. "Later then. Though we should probably, ah, reassemble ourselves and get going." Sherlock nodded and jumped off John, striding off to the bedroom, in pursuit of a new shirt. 

"I'll have Mrs. Hudson sew the buttons back on the one you ruined later," the detective announced when he reemerged in a plum-colored button up under a slate grey jacket. 

"Mmmfftt," John replied from where he was tugging his jumper back over his head. 

"Hurry up, John," Sherlock snapped, throwing his coat around himself and buttoning it up. From a quick glance, the doctor seemed to have calmed down, his gentials reluctantly accepting that there was no relief to be had at this moment. Sherlock's body, on the other hand, was protesting in a much more rebellious way, refusing to soften or relax.

Another first. John Watson was successfully giving Sherlock blue balls, though through no fault of his own. 

~*~

Sherlock was very grumpy when he arrived at the crime scene, and John found himself secretly amused by the fact that the detective was so frustrated by being cockblocked by a text. 

"About bloody time you got here," Lestrade grumbled, stalking up to them from where the police line was stretched. "This place's a blood bath." 

"Multiple victims?" Sherlock asked, glaring at the DI a little more than usual. Lestrade didn't seem to notice. 

"Sort of. Just one body, though. I hope you guys didn't eat before coming," Lestrade said, running a hand over his face. "You'd better do your absolute best, Sherlock. I want this guy behind fucking bars before he can come anywhere close to doing something like this again." John was concerned. The DI looked visibly shaken, and almost reluctant to lead them back to the scene. 

"You alright, Greg?" John asked softly, placing his hand on the other man's shoulder. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine. But, Jesus, John, I've never seen anything like this, in all my years with the Yard," Lestrade swallowed tightly. "We've set up the tape two or three times further away from the scene to keep the ooglers back. I really don't want any pictures of this being leaked back to the press, or God help us, the internet." John licked his lips nervously, and glanced over the barrier of tape. They were in one of the more heavily wooded areas of the park, and couldn't see the scene at all from here. Greg must have been very determined to keep on-lookers away. 

Before leading them back in, Lestrade took a big gulp of air and held it in, as if preparing himself to breathe air that wasn't quite as good as the air over here. And then he ducked under the tape, beckoning them after him. 

John and Sherlock followed, and it only took about ten or fifteen seconds of walking for John to realize why Greg had taken such a large breath. 

Blood has a certain smell to it; it's not quite like anything else. And John had smelled plenty of blood in his life, from the army to the surgery to cases with Sherlock; John Watson knew the scent of blood. Usually, it was just a slight bother, a bit of something to make him wrinkle his nose. He'd never been driven sick by the smell, a blessing in his chosen profession. 

But this was different. 

The wood began to smell lightly of blood, and John figured they were close. But they kept walking. And kept walking. And the scent got stronger. And stronger and stronger, until John was fighting to keep a lid on his disgust and revulsion, and above all, fear. 

The trees stank of blood, _reeked_ of it, as if someone had been splashing around buckets and buckets of it, but there was not a drop to be seen anywhere. 

John began wanting to turn back. He didn't want to know what lay at their destination; frankly, he was starting to feel very ill. There was little someone could do with one body to make the smell this bad. 

And then they were there. 

The green grass beneath them suddenly turned crimson, the dirt the vegetation was growing out of was suddenly mud, and the brown and white bark of the trees around them were red. Everything was red. Fuck, even the leaves above their heads were red. 

And in the middle of it lay the sort-of multiple victims, but singular body. 

John turned his back on the scene, walked three steps away, fell to his knees, and promptly proceeded to vomit every bit of what was in his stomach onto the clean green grass and more.

_Oh, God. Please. No._

_Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...um. Yeah. I traded Johnlock smut for horrifying murder scene that I haven't even revealed yet. >.>


	19. Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um...been a few days since I put a chapter up...sorry! I had a job interview pop up, and I was too distracted to sit down and actually do this chapter the way I wanted to, so that's why it's so late compared to how fast I normally put them up. Y.Y Please don't hate me for the delay. Though you might after this chapter. o.o

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock gently laid his fingers along the doctor's curved spine, not taking his eyes away from the crime scene in front of him. 

The detective's eyes roamed over the scene in front of him, a cold, detached fury boiling in his gut. 

The "body" was actually made up of nine different parts. The different pieces were all from different victims, made very obvious by the fact that one of the pieces was from a woman of African decent, and the rest were Caucasian. But Sherlock could see other discrepancies in the rest of the body parts ( _mismatched tan-lines, not from different bathing suits, lines too dark on one leg; one hand's fingers are painted vibrant pink, the other black; left foot three sizes bigger than right_ ) that on top of there being nine different pieces, there were nine different victims, too. He knew Lestrade had been hoping for two, desperately so. 

Sherlock slowly ran his fingers along John's twitching back as he examined each and every body piece from a distance. ( _Cuts to dismember done post-mortum, parts fixed to tree trunk by standard nail gun, avaiable at almost every hardware or do-it-yourself helper store. Right leg was a woman, pale skin, didn't see much sun, light freckles over the skin, waxed. Left leg, lightly tanned, but not by the sun; done at a spa or other such place. No freckles, smooth skin, straight razor to shave. Torso belonged to a black woman, with small breasts and a little too much weight around her middle put on too fast. Tattoo on her right hip. Angel wings? No, a raven. Interesting. Right hand belonged to a woman who had a habit of chewing her nails, chipping at the polish. Left to one who went and regularly got a manicure. Unmarried, no hint of a light tan line or groove worn by a ring. Right arm belonged to a woman that was beginning to age, perhaps in her early forties? Mole on the upper arm. Left was a slightly younger woman, but not by much. Darker skin, traveled recently to somewhere sunny. Then there's the scalp, hair intact. Golden in color, natural blonde, with highlights from the sun. Also traveled, but doesn't match the shade of the hair anywhere else on the body. Eight victims. And then the head..._ ) 

Sherlock stiffened as he examined the face, and then recognized the victim staring back at him with empty, sagging brown eyes. 

_Sarah Sawyer_. 

~*~

John couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop dry heaving long enough to gasp in a breath, and he was very glad that only Sherlock and Lestrade were about to see him like this. But good _God_ , he hadn't been expecting this. He'd _never_ expected this. He'd known it was bad. He'd known it from the moment he'd smelled blood from yards away.  
But _this_. He'd never had guessed that _this_ was what was waiting for him. 

Sarah. God, Sarah. Her _face_. 

John's body heaved again, making him retch and choke, his guts feeling like they were tightening and convulsing and knotting themselves inside his body to the point where he wanted to scream. But the doctor had no breath to scream. 

_The tattoo, John. You know the second victim, too_. 

A raven in black ink against dark skin. 

_Oh, God._

_Jeanette._

A horrible, horrible pattern was appearing in John's head. 

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock's voice came to John from a long way away, and he felt, faintly, the detective's hand beging lightly stroking his back through his jumper and shirt. John wanted to answer him, to scream, _OF COURSE I'M NOT ALRIGHT YOU BLOODY TOSSER!_

But John couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak, and his body heaved again, and he dragged in a few sips of air in an attempt to say _something_. But all that came out was a strangled cry of horror, and when the doctor was sure his belly was empty (no matter how much his guts were trying to evict everything and anything held within) John turned and groped for Sherlock's leg, clinging to his calf and thigh, burying his face into the material of Sherlock's long coat. 

He didn't care if Lestrade saw, he did not care if the DI laughed or gossiped about it later, he didn't give a flying, flaming, _death-spiral_ of a _fuck_ what he thought or said. Because John knew exactly who was up on that tree, pinned like a bug under glass for display. There were nine pieces. And John had a grand total of nine previous serious relationships.  
And now there they all were, brought together like some sick piece of art. 

~*~

Sherlock stiffened a bit when John grabbed onto him, gasping and convulsing against his leg, and the detective spared a glance over to Lestrade, who was watching them, ( _tired, stressed, frightened by the bodies and what it might mean, furious at the murder, and does not give a_ shit _whether or not John is grabbing periously close to my genitals with his right hand_ ) and deemed it alright to lower his own hand and stroke his fingers through the doctor's short hair. It made him feel a little odd to be allowing this open display of comfort and closeness; even in the privacy of 221b, Sherlock wasn't sure he would have let John behave this way had they not shared the moment of physical intimacy earlier. But he also wasn't quite sure what he would have done had they not, and John had acted this way regardless. Probably stood there like a statue, feeling very awkward. But this was where they were, and Sherlock continued to observe and deduce from the "body." 

After finding Sarah Sawyer's head among the ravaged pieces, Sherlock had a terrible suspicion as to who the rest of the victims were. He knew John had nine sexual partners in the past. His brain told him that this murder was no random act of violence, or some sick twist in a new cult or fanatic religion. No, this was a display of power, ruthlessness, and revenge. Sherlock already knew who had ordered this done, though he still wasn't clear on who had exactly done the deed. 

Moriarty must have been furious when Sherlock had plucked John out of his little trap room with little effort. No wonder Irene Adler had fled the country again. But Sherlock knew she would probably actually end up dead this time, with Moriarty after her and no Holmes to help her. 

"John," Sherlock murmured, prying the doctor's hands from his leg and crouching next to John. "I need to examine the scene more closely. I'll be right back. Stay here, don't look." Sherlock stood again after John nodded, and turned to Lestrade. He strode closer to the bodies on the tree, grabbing the DI and dragging him closer. Lestrade paled, gagged, and then regained control as they came within a yard of the corpse. Sherlock lowered his voice so that John could not hear them. "There are nine victims." 

"Shit," Lestrade swore. "I fucking hate this guy even more." The detective's mouth pulled up into a tight smile. Usually, a case like this would be exciting, thrilling, and a rare, wonderful treat. But not this time. This had been done for John, to _hurt_ John, and that had birthed a cold, hard knot of fury in Sherlock's abdomen, and even if the detective couldn't get to Moriarty for this, he'd sure as hell get to the man ( _or men, this many killings within the same amount of time suggests multiple murderers_ ) who'd killed these women. 

~*~

Sherlock didn't spend a whole lot of time at the scene after that, informing Lestrade that the women would most likely turn out to be nine women who had one thing in common: having dated John Watson in their past. Sherlock also explained his theory of it being connected John's kidnapping and escape, which was still an open case, since Irene Adler (the alleged kidnapper with little motive) having escaped. Sherlock didn't like pointing Lestrade in her direction, but the detective didn't want the hassle of the DI breaking down the flat door in the suspicion that John had had a psychotic break and killed all his ex-girlfriends. Plus, he was still a little ticked at the Woman for working with Moriarty again after he'd saved her life and helped her fake her death for the second time. Bloody females. 

After brushing Lestrade's demand that he stay and help more aside, Sherlock went to John and pulled the doctor to his feet, ushering him away from the crime scene. He needed to get John home. 

~*~

The smell of blood clung to their clothes. It was in their hair, clinging to their skin, caked to the bottom of their shoes from the red mud of the crime scene. The cabby looked at them funny as they got in the back, but didn't say anything, so John barely took notice of his _"I always get the crazy ones_ " look. The doctor's head was still reeling from the shock of seeing all the women he'd ever loved enough (or found just that attractive) to take to bed chopped up into pieces and pinned to a tree trunk in the middle of a park, and he jumped a mile when Sherlock reached across the bucket seat to take his hand. 

"John," Sherlock said, running his thumb over the back of the doctor's knuckles. "John." The younger man stared at John until the doctor finally felt his brain switch back online completely. He grimaced. 

"I hate him, Sherlock. God, I _hate_ him. And I hate myself, too," John whispered. "It's because of me that they're dead now. God, this is all my _fault_." The detective's face grew hard at John's words. 

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock snapped, making John narrow his eyes. "It's not your fault. This has Moriarty written all over it. It's his fault, not yours." John sighed. 

"That doesn't make this guilty feeling go away," the doctor said soflty, looking away out the window, but tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand. 

~*~

When they arrived at 221b, Mrs. Hudson was hoovering the entry, and looked up as they entered, wrinkling her nose. 

"Boys, what's that awful smell? Oh, and your _shoes!_ Take them off before you track more mud on my carpet!" their landlady cried as they walked in, their faces grim. "Boys?" 

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," John said softly, leaning on the wall to pull off his shoes and carry them upstairs. 

"Is he alright? Did something happen?" Mrs. Hudson turned to the detective, who was staring after the doctor. "Sherlock?" 

"Bad case, Mrs. Hudson. Very bad. And not in a good way," Sherlock told her, sparing her any details or the burdensome knowledge that everyone John had ever taken to bed was now nailed to a tree in Regent's Park. She'd find out eventually, but hopefully not connect the dots. Mycroft would no doubt dip his fingers into this pie, keeping any and all scandal away from Sherlock (and by extention, John) that he could. 

Sherlock removed his shoes and followed his doctor up the stairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson to hoover dried, bloody mud out of the carpet. 

~*~

John was standing in the main room, holding his shoes in his hands, looking as if he didn't know what to do. Should he sit down and read a book? Watch telly? It all seemed so... _wrong._ Every woman he'd ever had something meaningful with had been brutally murdered. And in a twisted way, he still had the guilt that if he'd never dated them, they'd still be alive. _God._

_Sarah, Abigail, Louise, Samantha, Susan, Jeanette, Lilian, Zoey, Cheryl._

John didn't hear Sherlock come into the flat, barely twitched when the detective took his shoes from his hands and gently tugged the doctor towards the bathroom. 

"John? Would you..." Sherlocks sighed. He wasn't sure how to do this. John was slipping in and out of shock at alarming intervals, seeming to come out of it in the cab, but falling right back into it just now. "Do you want to take a shower, John?" The doctor looked down at himself, smelling the blood ( _their blood, the blood of the women he'd marked for death-stop it, Watson, get ahold of yourself!_ ) on his clothes and in his hair and on his skin. He nodded, and allowed Sherlock to pull him into the bathroom. 

Sherlock leaned down to gently raised John's face to his, pressing his lips against the doctor's slightly open ones. After a second, John responded, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulling him close. Their mouths opened and John's tongue reached out to meet Sherlock's and the detective gave a soft sigh. They pulled apart a bit, and Sherlock pointedly tugged at the edge of John's jumper. The doctor released his hold on Sherlock's neck so the detective could pull it up and off, following it quickly with his shirt and then fumbling hands were at John's trousers. John felt a funny sort of smile crack his face when Sherlock looked up, a little pink in his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he tried to undo the flies of John's jeans. 

"Oh," John huffed a little as Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him again, finally managing the catch and zip, slipping his long fingers into the waistband and sliding them around to lightly brush his fingertips over John's arse through his pants. 

John hesitantly reached up and started unbuttoning Sherlock's charcoal shirt, glancing up at the detective. The doctor colored a bit as he saw Sherlock's pupils blow open wide with arousal, the detective's grip on John's arse suddenly growing much firmer. Sherlock tugged John closer and kissed him again, and John almost forgot about the last couple of hours. 

Almost. 

"Sherlock," John mumbled as Sherlock's lips moved to his jaw. "Shower?" 

"Mm? Oh. I suppose. Yes," the detective removed his mouth from under John's ear and then finished pushing down John's jeans, then let the doctor step out of them, toeing off his socks. Sherlock undid the rest of his buttons with the ease of long practice and let it fall to the floor and then quickly got to work on his belt and trousers, glancing up to see John watching him hungrily. Sherlock swallowed drily, and made to get out of his trousers that much faster. 

John leaned towards Sherlock, placing a kiss on the detective's chest as he twisted the knob of the shower to turn on the water. Sherlock looked John up and down. He'd seen the doctor naked before, fleetingly, but that seemed a lifetime ago, and it was nothing compared to here and now. Sherlock ran his hands over John's shoulders and down his arms, remembering the touches they'd exchanged earlier that day, the heat, the passion, the consuming _need_. He was fast approaching that point again, and hooked his fingers in the front of John's navy blue pants. The doctor's breath caught in his chest, and Sherlock's mouth twitched up on one side. And then he started pushing the pants down. 

John was aroused, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to push the doctor to the floor and do all sorts of things to him that might _possibly_ give John a little carpet burn from the rug. John quickly reached out as his own pants hit the floor and pulled on Sherlock's plain white pants until they, too, fell, and the two men stood naked before each other. 

And John eagerly threw himself at Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. I killed all of John's exes. Good? Bad? I really didn't want to kill Sarah, but...I couldn't just, you know, shuffle her off to the side because I kind of liked her but at the same time didn't. So she died. Y.Y 
> 
> BUT! I promise promise PROMISE there WILL BE SMUT in the next chapter! 
> 
> So delay the angry mob a bit longer, if you would...
> 
> Also, by the way, guys, I made a tumblr for all the randomness that takes us space in my head, and for some of my art. If you're interested, go ahead and check it out! I'm thinking about possibly drawing some Sherlock or Johnlock fanart in the future. :) 
> 
> http://renettehollow391.tumblr.com/


	20. Stayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, a new chapter....oh, look...an angry mob.......*flees* 
> 
> Please don't hate me for the s e c o n d long stint between chapters (I really didn't mean to go on hiatus this time, but I came down with a pretty nasty migraine that made made looking at the computer screen pretty painful, and that in turn made writing difficult) but if you're still with me and aren't intent on jabbing at me with a pitchfork or something, I can promise that things will be back to a chapter a day or so, hopefully without anything else getting in the way. 
> 
> Um, also, this chapter does have a smudge of smut in it, though not as intense as I originally planned. The, ah, plot kinda got in the way of the porn so to speak. So maybe next chapter. Or the chapter after that. Or the chapter after that.....

Sherlock felt every nerve in his body catch fire when John's bare skin touched his own. The detective's usual coherencey inside his own head absolutely died as every fact and feeling and observation hit him all at once ( _soft John's soft and his hair and his MOUTH and his hands MY GOD HIS HANDS and his chest and legs and his kisses and-_ ). Sherlock's train of thought was interrupted as John started pushing at him, urging him into the shower. The detective hastily stepped over the edge of the tub and into the hot spray, stifling a yelp. It was a tad hotter than he was used to. 

Sherlock's erection wilted a bit at the sudden introduction of water, but John was completley undeterred, stepping inside and pulling the curtain shut. With a determined look on his face, the doctor continued his assault on Sherlock's body with his hands and mouth, pushing the detective against the shower wall. John gave a small cry against Sherlock's mouth when the younger man bucked his hips against him, rubbing his erection insistently against the other's stomach. Panting, John groped and stroked at Sherlock's body, running his hands over his shoulders and arms and chest, grasping at his hips and reaching behind to squeeze at his arse. It was Sherlock's turn to let out a garbled attempt at speech as John grabbed at his arse harder and rutted against him, making the detective throw his head back ( _hitting it slightly painfully on the wall behind him, but what the hell did that matter right now when John was-Oh, GOD-_ ) and grab at John's shoulders, slippery under the spray of hot water. 

John released one side of Sherlock's arse to grab the detective's wet mop of hair and yank him down into a near-furious kiss, forcing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, fucking the detective's swollen lips. Sherlock groaned and arched at the thought, unable to stop the electrcity that had burst in his belly to shoot out to every end of his body and into John. 

"John," Sherlock huffed. "John. I...I don't think...now is...oh, _God_ , John! Stop!" The doctor growled from where his teeth were latched into Sherlock's throat, and ground his hips pointedly against Sherlock's thigh. The detective groaned and weighed his more-than-happy-to-give-in libido against the knowledge that John was acting out of pain and desperation to forget what he had seen in the park, not the desire to do this with Sherlock now, after losing all the women he'd loved with his body. 

"Sherlock-" John protested when the younger man gently pushed him away, both of them panting hard. 

"John. There is over a ninety nine percent chance that you are doing this with me out of pain and confusion and a need to just let your carnal insticts overwhelm your brain so you can forget what happened in the park, and while I find myself, physically at least, more than happy to let you indulge in my body, I think it would be best if we just...didn't. Not right now. Not...not like this." Sherlock bit his lip in fear as John just stared at him, then let out a small sigh of relief as the doctor's face crumpled and then John leaned forward and placed his forehead on Sherlock's chest. 

"I can't....Sherlock, I can't believe....all of them. Why?" 

"Because he's insane. And cruel. And is showing you what he's willing to do to hurt us," Sherlock said softly. "He couldn't keep you from me, not forever. He was having too much fun watching me suffer to kill you. But even I know that if all the women you'd ever loved were dead...who would be left for you to resent for it, but _me?_ There's no surer way to hurt me than to have you leave me of your own free will. Because I won't stop you, John. I won't. I know that this world I share with you crossed a line you never anticipated today. And if it's too much...if it's not worth it...I won't stop you leaving. He'll lose interest in you once you have nothing to do with me. And I can understand if that's what you want."

Silence, except for the hiss of the water and the soft panting of their breath. 

And then John let out a weak, broken chuckle. 

"You're mad," the shorter man said, his hands sliding around Sherlock's waist and pulling him tight. "You are absolutely mad if you think that I'm going to walk away from this life, this world, from YOU, because of one _lunatic_. No, what he did...was horrible. Unforgivable. And it just makes me want to kill him more. Catching him isn't enough anymore, Sherlock. He murdered them, all of them, out of spite and whatever the fuck else goes on in that wrongly-wired brain of his. And I never want to have to chance him doing this again, to anyone. I know I'm not the first he's played with this way, and if we leave it, if we don't go after him...I know it won't be the last time, either. And I refuse to someday see you...like that. I refuse to see you...cold. And bloody, and not...alive. No. Never. _Never_ , Sherlock." John buried his head in the detective's shoulder, his mouth twisted into a pained grimace. He'd never felt such _fury_ , such _pain_ like this before. It made his guts twist and cramp in awful ways, made him wish for the feeling of being shot hundreds of times over rather than have to remember the crimson splattered crime scene. 

All of them. Dead and gone, their futures cut short, their familes broken, their loved ones blindsided by this horrible man doing horrible things because he liked to stick his fingers in everyone else's pie. John's fury swelled to the point where he was seeing red, where he didn't remember where he was, didn't know who was holding onto him as he trembled, didn't remember anything but the tree and the grass and the blood, blood, _blood_ , all over the place. His pain rose up inside of him until all he could see was Jeanette's tattoo, Sarah's eyes, Cheryl's freckles, all of them, dead and nailed to a tree. Every woman he'd loved, every woman he'd ever taken to bed, every woman he'd thought once, even if it had only been for five minutes, that he might marry someday....dead. Gone. Gone forever. 

And John broke. 

~*~

Sherlock wasn't very good with tears. Honestly, outside of a crime scene, tears unnerved him. Mummy had cried frequently when he'd been young, and little he'd done had made it better. He'd quickly learned that tears were to be avoided. Sherlock avoided everyone but Mrs. Hudson when they cried. He'd avoided Lestrade after the first time he'd caught his wife cheating, he'd avoided that girl in Speedy's he'd brought to tears after revealing her fiance's true motives behind their marriage (valuable family heirloom hanging about her neck; turned out to be fake in the end) and he avoided Molly whenever he reduced that emotionally-ticking-timb-bomb to a blubbering mess (which really wasn't all that often anymore). 

But what was Sherlock to do when John crumpled in his arms in the shower, a soft, broken keening coming from his throat? Sherlock couldn't avoid John. The detective felt horrendously awkward standing there in the increasingly-colder water as the doctor clung to him and softly wailed into the skin of his shoulder. So Sherlock gently patted the doctor's hair and rubbed his back, as Sally Donovan had once instructed him to do with a screaming infant (the baby had been evidence in a case; blood patterns on its skin and nappy had helped confirm how its mother had been murdered) that had been unceremoniously thrust into his care when everyone else had been to busy (or too amused to see the great Sherlock Holmes demoted to Nanny) to take care of it. 

Of course, John was no infant, but the slow, gently strokes along the skin of his back and the fingers softly touching his hair ever so gradually, lulled him until he was numb. Of course, the numb feeling may have also have been partially due to the fact that the shower was almost pelting them with sleet, but John had a feeling (somewhere deep down in his conciousness where part of his sanity lay intact) that it had something more to do with _emotional_ numbness. 

Sherlock helped John out of the shower and toweled them both dry, silently cursing Moriarty for putting such a large stumbling block in the way of his and John's slowly blossoming romantic relationship. How could the detective be expected to woo the doctor if all the latter's previous lovers had been spectacularly murdered? Not exactly the best way to start off this-whatever the hell it was they were trying to start-was it. 

~*~

The numb feeling didn't go away as Sherlock slowly pulled the towel along John's body, being thorough but not invasive with his strokes and gentle rubbing. John's previous arousal and half-mad desire had taken a back seat as the shock finally pulled him completely under, and he barely noticed Sherlock every so often gently placing a soft kiss on his skin (forehead, right shoulder, left pectoral, stomach, right hip, inside of his left knee). John let Sherlock help him into a pair of plain white pants (clean ones that he'd left on the back of the toilet with the intention of changing into them, along with a nice new pair of jeans he'd bought, but then this morning had happened) and his short, dark blue robe that was hanging on the back of the door next to Sherlock's long one. The detective pulled on his own dressing gown and went without pants, since there wasn't a clean pair of his own readily available. 

Sherlock slowly herded John out of the bathroom and out into the kitchen. John sat at the table and slumped onto its surface, doing his very best not to think. Because if he started to think, he would start to scream, and if he started to scream, he would never stop. He would scream his pain, and his fury, and then he would scream for God to _please, give them back, I'll do anything,_ even though he knows that isn't possible....

God, it's his last mission in Afghanistan all over again, but worse, so much worse, because he loved them. And there's so much more guilt this time because there really _was_ so much more he could have done to save them. 

"Stop thinking, John," Sherlock says as he sets a large mug of steaming tea in front of the shaking doctor. "There was nothing you could have done. Even I...I never foresaw this. I wish I could have. I wish I could have stopped it, stopped him. But...there are somethings outside of reason and logic, and Moriarty happens to cross back and forth over that line every day." 

And John cries again on the table, wishing that he could see the truth in Sherlock's words, because he knows it's there, but he just can't _find_ it. There was so much he should have done to keep them safe. But like the detective had said, there was nothing he could have done. 

~*~

Sherlock helped John up to bed, and waits with him until the crushed sleeping pills he put in the tea John had finally drank (cold) knocked him out. Now, the detective could only hope that the doctor wouldn't dream. 

The younger man went back downstairs and got out his violin, playing his half of John's song quietly. It was still relatively early in the evening, the events of the day seeming to have stretched out forever. Had it really only been less than a week since he'd found John again, trapped in that room? Had it really only been since this morning that they were playing piano and violin together, Mrs. Hudson twittering about in the kitchen? It felt as though it had been years. 

Sherlock pulled the bow slowly across the strings, frankly a little terrified of what he might see if he entered his Mind Palace, if he dared to decend to his Heart Room to play his feelings out. John was in pain. It hurt Sherlock more than he could have imagined to see John in pain. His chest felt as though it were at once swollen and empty, somehow hollow but heavy, burdened with feelings and numbness. He'd met most of the women on that tree. Driven most of them away, whether accidentally or on purpose. But for all of Sherlock's icy wit and heartless deducing, and last, but not least, ruthless insults and _I-don't-care-enough-to-remember-your-name-despite-my-faultless-memory_ , he'd never truly wished any of them _dead_. Well, perhaps he'd wished Susan dead once or twice (irritating, insufferable, _rude_ , and above all _brainless_ twit that she'd been), he'd never wished her dead _that_ way. For all its facinating quirks and qualities, murder was hardly the best way to die. 

Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to escape his mind, to focus on the soft notes being gently stroked from the strings of his violin, but, as always, the ever-hungry maw of his mind rose up and consumed him. 

_His mind palace is dark, and that is not all that unusual. The lighting changes with his mood sometimes, and his mood is indeed dark today._

_His feet carry him to his Heart Room though he does not wish to go, and he sees that the door is cracked open, light spilling from inside. His hand reaches out, and pushes the door open. The room looks the same as its twin in his Mind Palace, clean and no longer cracked and reminicent of having just suffered a mild earthquake. But there is something different, as there always is whenever he comes here. Now there is a bed, and in it lays a double of John. He is curled on his side, sobbing in pain. And Sherlock feels that pain reflected in himself, tears springing to his eyes. Sherlock does not like to cry. He does not like to show weakness. He wants to turn his face away from John, to turn away from the heart-wrenching tears, but he cannot tear he eyes away from the doctor's tortured face._

_"I did this to him," Sherlock whispered, the words falling from his lips without urging. "This is my fault."_

_And then, from where the walls meet the ceiling, red begins to bleed down, staining the room, coating it in crimson, dripping down, down, down, until the whole room is red._

Sherlock is jerked out of his head by a sour note on his violin, the sound jarring him back into awareness. The detective realizes that he has been playing for hours, and the brief amount of time he felt he'd spent inside his own mind had actually been much longer. It was full dark outside the window, and Sherlock lowered his instrument to sigh heavily. He wanted to be full of energy, to be unable to sleep because of his excitement over this wonderfully intriguing case, but all he could seem to feel was worry for John, fear for John, pain for John. 

A soft cry drifted from upstairs, and Sherlock's head jerked up in response. Seconds later, he was bounding up the stairs and into John's room, where the doctor was thrashing in the sheets, caught in the clutches of a nightmare. 

~*~

_The air is dry and hot and seems to suck every ounce of moisture from John's body as he marches in time with the rest of his unit. His mate Sean is next to him, grumbling lightly under his breath about the heat and the way his left foot aches because his boot is starting to wear funny. John grins and makes a soft joke out of the corner of his mouth about Private Donn, who everyone knows trades sex for snacks whenever somebody salvages a bag of crisps or a chocolate bar from who-knows-where. Sean cracks a smile, and goes to say something back, but never gets the chance._

_The world explodes in a riot of gunfire and blood and screaming. Half the unit goes down before anyone knows what's happening, and then a grenade lands in the middle of them, blowing Private Donn to pieces when he throws himself on top of it to shield the friends around him from the blast. John swears and ducks behind the nearest pile of twisted wreckage, dragging Sean with him. John fumbles for the small pistol he's been issued for self defence, peering over the edge of twisted metal and rubber (he thinks it was once a car) and tries to see where the enemy is shooting from, how many of the men are down, and how many he can hope to save. John fires a few rounds at a man in dark cloth hiding beside the corner of a building with a rifle tucked against his shoulder, picking off anyone still stirring on the ground. The enemy gunman drops down dead, but others are still shooting, and John ducks down as a spray of bullets hammers against their shelter. Sean is fumbling with his gun, trying to get a fresh clip in, and then raises his head above the edge to fire at where he guesses the enemy is. Sean goes down a second later, blood spraying from where he'd taken a bullet to the face._

_John chokes down a scream and scrambles for his medical kit, already knowing it's too late. When he presses his fingers against his friend's throat and finds no pulse, he finally does scream, grabbing Sean's gun from his limp fingers and throwing himself over the edge of the car. A few of his unit-mates are still alive, still shooting from places where they've managed to find cover, or from where they lie bleeding in the dust. John looses a spray of bullets towards where he sees any semblance of an enemy to be hiding, letting out a frustrated wail every time a comrade goes down._

_And then something hot and sharp and strangely numbing takes him in the shoulder, throwing him back off the car like someone kicked him. John lands on his back in the dust, winded, wheezing for air. His fingers blindly grasp from the strangely-absent-feeling shoulder, and when he looks at his hand, it is red with blood. John jerks and screams as the pain finally hits him, and his body convulses in agony. He screams until there's no breath left in his lungs, and then screams some more, no sound emerging from his parted lips. He screams until his eyes bug out of his head and he finally passes out from pain and shock and lack of breath._

_And then he wakes up seconds later to ear-ringing silence. He raises his head, expecting to see the inside of the chopper where he did wake up, where the told him that everyone else was dead, that no one had survived but him, and that in itself was a miracle and he should be grateful. But how could John be grateful for that?_

_But even with these thoughts spinning around in his head, he doesn't see the inside of the chopper. Instead, he sees grass, green, green grass, soft as baby hair. He runs his fingers through it, marvelling. But as he pulls his fingers away, they come back crimson. Horrified, John sits up and looks around, and finds himself in a small wooded area. And behind him, nailed to the tree, are nine faces, nine women staring at him with dead eyes, gaping at him with dead mouths, their dead voices asking him why, why, why didn't he save them, why didn't help them, it was all his fault, fault, fault...._

~*~

Pain. Shocking pain, sharp and shocking and hot against his cheek. John blinked open his eyes, actually blinked them open, to see a young man with wild black curls and panicked, unbelievable green eyes staring down at him with a horrified expression. It took a moment for John to ground himself, to realize that he wasn't in Afghanistan, he wasn't in a chopper, he wasn't in Regent's Park, he was home, he was safe, he was with Sherlock, and everyone in his unit was still dead, and every woman he'd taken to bed was still dead, and it was all his _fault_. 

And John threw his arms around Sherlock and broke down into howling tears. 

The detective held him, and rocked him, and rubbed his hands along John's back like he was child, and the doctor loved him for it. 

~*~

John had started actually screaming once Sherlock leapt into his bed, and it took a few tries to snap him out of the nightmare. But eventually the detective found himself with an armful of mostly-naked, sobbing John Watson, and for the first time, Sherlock truly hated Moriatry more than he admired him. 

~*~

John howled his pain and fear and grief for a while, and Sherlock will lie to this day and deny that he started to cry after about five minutes of it, but it didn't really matter to John if he won't admit it, beause he _stayed_. Sherlock stayed, and he held John, until the wails became sobs, and the sobs became whimpers, and the whimpers became silence. 

And still Sherlock stayed. Even after John fell asleep, deeper than dreams could reach him, faster and surer than medication could send him. John slept. 

And Sherlock stayed. 

~*~

John woke late the next morning, to find himself tangled in sheets that had that grimy, sweaty feeling to them that meant either really terrible sex had been achieved, or he'd sweated the way he only did when he had a nightmare. The thought of nightmares brought back the scrambled recollections of his terror from very early that morning, and he quickly shied away from it. Instinctively he tightened his arms around what he was holding, expecting it to be one of his three pillows. But it wasn't a pillow. 

It was Sherlock, who grunted slightly at the sudden squeeze. 

"So you're awake now?" the detective asked mildly, tilting his face to bury his nose in John's hair. The doctor's heart jumped weakly, realizing that he was rather intimately wrapped around the detective, their legs intertwined, Sherlock's arms around John's shoulders, and the latter's arms around the former's chest. John nodded weakly. He felt...drained. Despite his full night's rest, his mind and heart felt empty and dry. "Alright. I feel I should inform you that, ah, I did not anticipate remaining after your...episode. You wouldn't allow me to leave." John frowned, rummaging around in his head for a memory of the night before. He had a blurry recollection of his usual Afghan nightmare, somehow twisted in the end....and then...a slap? Oh. Sherlock had hit him to get him to wake up. And...hmm. He couldn't...quite...recall... "Just so we're clear," Sherlock added after John's continued silence. "Any anger or awkwardness you're feeling due to the situation right now is most certainly not my fault. You've only yourself to blame." John rolled his eyes. Typical Sherlock. 

The detective gave a soft gasp as John pulled him slightly tighter against his body, nosing gently at Sherlock's collarbone. The detective was naked save for his blue robe and a loose pair of shorts that were twisted about his lower body (in a decidedly uncomfortable way), and John found it rather easy to bury himself somehow even deeper into Sherlock's embrace. Despite the raging pain only a few inches beneath the surface of his slightly bizarre emotional calm, John felt better than he had yesterday. In spite of the horror of yesterday, and the agony he would face in the coming days, right now, right here, cuddling with one of the least cuddly men he knew, John felt...strangely at peace. And he was okay with that. He knew peace would come rarely in the future. So he savored the feeling of Sherlock's fingers gently stroking along his skin, probably memorizing and cataloguing every curve and bump and dip in his spine and muscles and ribs. But John didn't mind, because it gave him something to focus on other than the just-beneath-the-surface pain and panic.

And they stayed like that, until someone rang the bell. 


	21. Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Yayyyy! Enjoy.

John groaned as the doorbell buzzed again, insistently, before he heard the door below be opened by Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock clutched him closer as he began to stir, and the doctor muttered something even he wasn't quite able to understand. Something about the door and having to get up, he thought. 

"John? Sherlock!" came Lestrade's voice from downstairs. "Got something for you!" John tried to get up again, but Sherlock threw a leg across the doctor's drawing him closer to his body. The detective couldn't care less if Lestrade came up here and saw them entwined like lovers; that was the end Sherlock was aiming for, anyway, and he was too selfish to reliquish the private, intimate moment he'd stolen with John to give it up quite yet. 

"Sherlock?" Lestrade started up the stairs, seeming to have already checked the lower floor. "I know you're home, your landlady said so! This is important! We've got a lead on the killer! We need you on this one...oh." Lestrade appeared in the doorway to see Sherlock glaring at him from over the top of John's head, who had his face tucked into the detective's throat. Lestrade could see that John was wearing a pair of dark pants, and Sherlock had on his favorite dressing gown, and the DI let out a silent thank you to the powers that be that they weren't naked. He'd had a feeling in the last few months that something had been changing between the detective and his blogger, and that it had been for the better. But that didn't mean he was looking forward to possibly walking in on them shagging. 

"What is it?" Sherlock asked softly, his gaze fixed on John's hair, the doctor trembling slightly as the detective's long fingers explored his back. 

"Got something to do with...yesterday," Lestrade said, striving for delicate and hitting awkward instead. "A possible suspect. Got CCTV shots of him about the area where the...victims disappeared, and around the park just before the...the scene was discovered." Greg looked tired, Sherlock noticed out of the corner of his eye (hadn't slept, spent the night in his office, spent the late afternoon and evening of yesterday informing the families and friends of the nine victims of their tragic and unexpected loss. Emotionally and physically worn down. But not ready to crash just yet). 

"And?" the dark-haired detective asked, knowing from the thick folder in Lestrade's hand that there was more. 

"He's got a record, this bloke. Wanted for everything from petty theft to murder over the last couple of decades. But somehow, he kept slipping out of our net. And a few years ago, he went completely off the map, it was kinda eerie, like he'd just dropped off the face of the earth," Lestrade frowned, flipping open the folder. "And then he showed up yesterday in the CCTV shots. We managed to get a tail on him, he headed out for Cardiff this morning. But we're not sure how long the tail can hold onto him. The local authorities have granted us permission to pursue him give the...circumstances, and are willing to allow you to participate, Sherlock."

"Alright," the younger man slowly untangled himself from John and sat up, his eyes focused on the doctor lying beside him. "Give us a few minutes and we'll be ready to go." 

"Erm, one more thing," Lestrade spoke up, clearing his throat. "John can't come." 

An unnatural stillness took over the limp body of the doctor, as if he'd stopped breathing. 

"What?" John's voice was low and hoarse, rough with pain and anger. He, too, sat up and turned to face Lestrade. The doctor's face was red and blotchy and stained from long hours of crying, his eyes bloodshot and a bit swollen. "Why?" 

"You're too close to the case, John. There's nothing I can do. This comes from higher up than I can reach with a ladder," Lestrade scowled. "I know you, I know you would do everything you could to bring this one in, but my boss's boss's boss's boss doesn't know that. And you're not allowed to go. End of story." 

"But I-" John began. 

"No buts!" Lestrade snapped. "Jesus, I'm already putting my whole career on the line to get Sherlock in on this one, dammit. Your shit attitude at the last crime scene in Cardiff got to stepping on some important toes, Holmes, and I've called in every favor I've ever had to get you there. I don't have enough clout to get John in, too. So get some bloody clothes on and let's go." Sherlock turned to look at John, who, as if sensing the detective's gaze, looked round at him. They stared at each other for a second. And then John nodded, his mouth a firm line, eyes hard. Sherlock, in contrast, softened a bit, his mouth turning down, eyebrows drawing up a bit. And the detective reached out to stroke his fingers down John's face, a motion of comfort, and that painful so-subtle-it's-screaming-at-you display of love. And then Sherlock jumped out of the bed and hurried downstairs with a whip of his blue robe, eyes storming, face set in a snarl as he dug his mental teeth into this case. Lestrade followed in his wake, leaving John alone. 

~*~

Sherlock tied his scarf around his throat as Lestrade read to him straight from the case file, his mind moving at the highest speed he could push it too as he processed, deduced, and learned about Sebastian Moran. They detective and the DI went down to the waiting cab, climbed in, and never saw the man in the dark coat and hat tilted down over his face watching them from across the street. 

~*~

After he heard the door shut and silence spread through out the flat, John sat in bed for a minute. And then he got up, got dressed with sharp, automatic motions, and went downstairs. He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, trying to keep himself busy. It was downright bizarre being here when he knew that Sherlock was rushing off into all sorts of mad danger. It would be three hours, give or take a half hour, for the detective to get to Cardiff by car, and John felt he would go mad just within those endless minutes before Sherlock even was truly in danger. 

The doctor went and sat in his favorite chair, sipping his tea and trying to turn his brain off. He didn't want to think about yesterday. He didn't want to think about Sherlock somehow ending up in the same sort of way. 

John flinched at the image of dark hair and dead green eyes staring at him from where they were nailed to a tree in his head. Trembling, he set his tea aside and got up, moving over to the piano. There, he sat and played his half of the song he'd written for, and later with, Sherlock, letting the soothing melody and familiar notes tumble through his mind and erase everything else. 

~*~

Sherlock fidgeted the whole way to Cardiff. Lestrade restrained the urge to strangle the younger man as he played with his phone, tapped his finger against his knee, and tied, untied, and retied his scarf. When they did finally arrive at the city after three and a half hours of hellish traffic, Sherlock almost ran from the car to the officer waiting for them in the police station. He deduced everything she had to say within seconds of seeing her and then demanded to see the head of investigations in the same breath.  
Lestrade sighed. This was going to be a long case in more ways than one. 

~*~

Four hours after Sherlock left, John was pacing the flat, checking his phone every ten minutes. He knew it was unlikely for the detective to text him, considering Sherlock never texted or called on a case unless it pertained to that case. Or, maybe, to a more interesting one. But that knowledge didn't stop John from trying to wear a hole in Mrs. Hudson's rug with his pacing while constantly checking his phone. 

~*~

"The tail, I want to talk to the bloody tail! Where is he?" Sherlock roared over the spluttered protests of Inspector Rowe of Cardiff. The shorter, rounder, balding man stiffened and glared at first Sherlock, then around him to glower at Lestrade. 

"The tail is doing his job, following Moran wherever he goes," Rowe said stiffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets, as if that would help him restrain from throttling the consulting detective. 

"I need to talk to him," Sherlock hissed. "Where is he?" Scowling, Rowe turned and looked at one of his officers, who immedietely supplied an address where the tail had last updated his whereabouts. And when Rowe turned again, Sherlock and Lestrade were gone. 

"Are they always...?" Rowe asked, turning to look at Sally Donovan, who had arrived in her own police car a few minutes after Lestrade and Sherlock. 

"No. At least, Lestrade's not. But this case, this murder.... _these_ murders, they're bad. And they hurt somebody close to both of them." Sally's mouth was pinched and angry. She didn't like seeing Lestrade so...compromised. So very far on the side of the freak. She could understand why, with all these dead women, and this mad killer about, but still. She didn't like it. 

~*~

John was lying face down on the floor of the main room, hating life, hating himself, hating Moriarty, and hating Lestrade from making him remain behind. He could be out doing something useful, helping catch the killer, and instead, here he was, going slowly mad on the floor of the flat. 

He heard the door open, and groaned. 

"Go away, Mrs. Hudson," he called from where he lay, irritated and sad and wanting to hear the familiar heavy step of his flatmate, not the light tapping of his landlady. But the footsteps that entered the flat were not light, they were heavy, far too heavy to be Sherlock, let alone Mrs. Hudson. After a moment of frozen realization, John lurched to his feet and whirled to face the intruder. 

The man was tall and broad, with buzz-cut brown hair and a heavy brow over dark eyes. He had a scar causing the outer corner of his right eye to droop, and another cutting his eyebrow in half. His mouth, which looked a little too small for his face, was pulled into a tight, cruel smile as he watched John stare at him. 

_Gun. Where is my-upstairs. On the dresser, where I left it after all this shit with the murder in the park. Shit._ _Shit, bugger, fuck!_

"You must be Doctor Watson," the man said in a growling sort of voice as he cracked his knuckles. 

"Yeah. And you are?" John drew himself up as tall as he could stand, still several inches short of the other man's full stature. 

"Moran," the man's grin turned wolfish as John's face paled. "Hey, you know me, then? Heard of me?" 

"Sarah...Jeanette, and Cheryl, and the others, all of them, you, it was _you_ -" John stared at the man who had killed all nine women, and Moran's grin just got bigger. 

John couldn't have stopped himself even if he'd wanted to as he threw himself at the murderer. 

~*~

Sherlock and Lestrade walked into the cafe where the tail was sitting at a table, reading a newspaper while keeping an eye on the building across the street. The young man had dark hair slicked back from his slightly pinched face, and wore dark, unassuming clothes. He looked up as the detective and DI joined him at his table. 

"What are-?" he began before Lestrade discreetly showed him his badge. 

"We're from London," the DI began, but the younger man looked a cross between livid and panicked. 

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You'll blow my cover! Get out of here, now!" Sherlock ran his eyes over the tail as the young man lowered the paper. Sherlock stood abruptly. 

"Sherlock?" Lestrade looked up to see the detective's face was white, sheet white, and pained. 

"You're not tailing Moran," Sherlock hissed. "You're not tailing anybody. You led the police on a wild goose chase to get me out of London, away from the scene, away from the killer, away from...oh, God. John." 

"What?" the kid rasped, looking horrified. Lestrade quickly pulled his cuffs and arrested the tail, looking up at the detective as he held the struggling younger man down. The other patrons and the barista were looking at them as if they were mad, but Lestrade held up his badge and focused on Sherlock. 

"What is going on?" he demanded. "Tell me I didn't just fuck over our whole situation. Where are you coming from with this?" 

"No. There is no situation, Lestrade. Moran never left London. This was a ruse to get me out of the way, to get John alone. I don't know why, but the bastard's targeting him alone now, instead of me directly!" Sherlock snarled and turned in a dramatic whirl of his coat, exiting the cafe. 

"Sherlock, wait! I still don't understand!" Lestrade called, but was soundly ignored. "Dammit!" 

~*~

Moran pulled a gun as John jumped at him, but he didn't fire it as they struggled. John's hands scrabbled to get a handle on the gun with the desperation of a furious and broken man, clawing and scratching at Moran's skin. The bigger man cursed and used his other hand to punch the doctor repeatedly in the right side, making John gasp and flares of pain spiral through out his body. Snarling, John jerked his knee up and caught Moran in the thigh and hip and finally the crotch. 

"Fuck!" Moran gasped, his body buckling a bit automatically. John released one hand on the gun to throw a punch at Moran's face. The taller man's nose made a satisfying crunching noise as it broke, and John's mouth formed a small, satisfied smile as Moran howled. 

And then the gun went off in a burst of noise and light. 

~*~

Sherlock wanted to scream. 

Despite the fact that he'd been able to uncover the ruse fairly early, it was _infuriating_ that he hadn't realized it from the beginning, that he'd left John alone for hours now, and that Moran was still in London with an emotionally crippled doctor ripe for the picking. Sherlock texted John multiple times as he hailed a cab and threw a ridiculous amount of notes over the seat. 

"Get me back to London now," the detective snarled, terror pounding in his veins as minutes slipped by without a word from John. Sneering, Sherlock went to the M's in his contact list. 

**_I assume you are keeping an eye on John? -SH_ **

~*~

Mycroft Holmes looked up from his computer as his phone vibrated on his desk. Frowning, he picked it up and checked the message. His eyebrows raised. 

_**Of course }MH** _

The surveillance on Sherlock and John had been upped to the highest Mycroft could manage without getting personally involved and raking in a few of the favors he'd collected in the past years. That said, it was still very intense surveillance. 

_**Why do you ask? }MH** _

The doctor hadn't left the flat since Sherlock had departed to chase down a murderer, and there'd only been one little ten second blip on the video, which Anthea had caught and covered from a second camera. No one had passed in front of 221b Baker Street, though the camera had been unable to catch the actual front door. The first camera was back up and trained on the front door, but nothing seemed amiss. 

_**The tail was a fake. John's in danger. -SH** _

~*~

Pain bloomed in John's left leg, and a strangled cry was wrenched from his throat. Moran snarled, blood flowing freely from his nose, and pressed forward, trying to over balance the doctor to gain more leverage. John wanted to scream as he slipped and tilted back, Moran bending him to the point where he was starting to wobble, unsteady because of the shot to his thigh. Moran's mouth twisted into a cruel grin, his teeth stained red with blood. 

"Poor little doctor, all on his own, with no psychopath to watch over him," Moran hissed. "I'm going to have fun with you before you die." John snarled and threw his head forward, headbutting Moran. His forehead caught the bigger man in the nose and cheekbone. Pain burst through John's head at the impact, but Moran was thrown backwards, his nose almost completely flattened and his cheekbone was rapidly swelling and turning red. The gun clattered to the floor, and John tried to throw himself after it. But Moran grabbed him and dug his thick fingers into the wound on John's leg, making the doctor scream in agony. John threw back and elbow and caught Moran in the ribs, and they both fell, tussling on the floor as one of them kicked the gun out of reach. 

John, despite being trapped under Moran, managed to get a fist free to drive his knuckles into the larger man's gut over and over again, winding him. The doctor squirmed free, his leg screaming bloody murder as he dragged it across the floor towards the firearm. Moran grunted and lurched after him, his hands clawing at his trousers, trying to pull him back as he crawled away. John kicked out with his good leg and caught Moran in the shoulder, shaking himself loose. 

"Get _back_ here, you shithead!" Moran snarled, scrambling after John as the doctor's fingers reached out for the handle of the gun. John rolled over, weapon in his left hand, as Moran lunged at him, his large body looming over the doctor. John recognized the sensation as his brain suddenly sped up to capture all the details of his situation. Adrenaline was a wonderful thing, sometimes. John straightened his arm, and took aim as fast as he could. 

And the soilder pulled the trigger. 

~*~

Mycroft frowned as Anthea ran over the blip in footage over and over again, playing it in a loop. The camera had basically flickered, the screen going fuzzy, then dark, then fuzzy again, and back to a picture within a matter of seconds. Nothing too unusual, though a little concerning in light of the fact that Sherlock was now insisting (and blowing up Mycroft's mobile in the process) that John was in serious danger and that Mycroft needed to get someone over there an hour ago. The disdain in the younger Holmes's texts was tangible, and it was more than obvious that he was loathe to ask Mycroft for a tissue, let alone to go charging in and save his friend (or lover? Mycroft was unsure if they had taken that step yet) in the detective's place. 

**_John's not answering his phone. -SH_ **

**_Perhaps he is asleep? }MH_ **

**_He's suffering flashbacks and PTSD about the murders, on top of his usual nightmares from the war. He's not sleeping. Get someone in there, Mycroft, now. -SH_ **

Mycroft sighed. He had to admit that Sherlock's logic was sound, but there was no external sign that anything was amiss. It might just alienate John even more, making him paranoid that he was about to be attacked any second if nothing was in fact wrong. 

"Sir," Anthea said softly, freezing the footage from the last twenty minutes and zooming in on the window Sherlock liked to play violin in. 

A dark shadow, too tall and broad to be John, passed across the drawn curtains. 

Mycroft felt his chest tighten. Damn the man behind all this murder and kidnapping and other distasteful goings-on; Sherlock would never let him hear the end of this. 

"Get someone over there," the elder Holmes snapped. 

~*~

Moran was heavy. 

John heaved and pushed and shoved until the large man slid off to the side, and the doctor scooted back away from him, still holding the gun. The other man wasn't dead; John had shot him in the gut. It would take a long time for him to die. But, for the moment, he was at the very least incapacitated from pain. Every move Moran made would exacerbate his condition, and the scarred brute seemed to know it as he laborously turned his head to glare at John. 

"You asshole," Moran spit, blood spraying from his lips. John wasn't sure if it came from his ripped insides, or his broken nose. 

"You're the bloody idiot who broke into my flat to kill me," John snapped back, pointing the gun at Moran's forehead. "Now, where's Moriarty?" Moran sneered. 

"You ain't getting nuffin' outta me," he grunted, his words coming out slurred and broken as his face twisted in pain. One large hand slid under his belly to clutch at the wound, blood starting to pool beneath him. 

"Look. This is ridiculous. You're dying right now, laying there. You know that, right?" John sighed, using his free hand to inspect his leg wound. It wasn't too bad. The bullet had missed all major arteries and veins, tearing through the meat of the outer thigh. It was going to hurt like hell and be difficult to stand and walk, but he'd managed with a cane before. He could do so again. 

"M'not afraid to die," Moran growled, but when John looked over at him, his eyes were full of fear. John sighed and rolled his eyes. 

"Fine, fine, lay there and bleed while I try to work it out for myself," the doctor muttered, hauling himself up by the coffee table. He leaned heavily on the furniture as he made his way closer to Moran, pointing the gun at the wounded man's head. "Don't move, or I'll shoot your bollocks, too." John let his eyes run over Moran, trying to think like Sherlock. 

Plain clothes. White tank top under flannel button-up, with a dark jacket over the top of that. Dark jeans, almost new-looking, and dark boots. The boots were older than the rest of Moran's clothing, clearly well-worn for at least a couple years, and decently cared for. John studied the bottom of Moran's boots, noticing the mud dried in the treads. 

"Been down by the Thames, then?" John murmured. "You work for Moriarty, and were sent here to kill me...and after that bloody time I spent in his glorified cage, he wouldn't send just anyone to knock me off...or maybe he would. After all, that mess in the park, that was his revenge...I think. That's what he did to hurt me for getting away. So what's the point of trying to take me out? You'd think I'd welcome it after....rrggh." John shook his head. His mind was hazy from the rush of adrenaline and the pain. "You're the one Lestrade was talking about earlier. You're supposed to be in bloody Cardiff...oh. Oh, you collossal _wanker!"_ John snarled, banging his fist into the back of Sherlock's chair.

"You're doing this to hurt Sherlock. God, I hate these bloody mind games." John glared at Moran, who made an angry face back at him. 

"You can't win," Moran grunted. "He's everywhere. Got spies and moles and followers all over the place. Moriarty's web is huge. Even if you kill me and chase after him, you'll never find him. You'll never find the spider in his own web unless he wants you to." 

"Mmm," John sighed. "That's a nice thought. But I've never really thought of Moriarty as a spider. No, spiders are too small, their webs-while beautiful and unique and strong for their own purposes-are easily destroyed if you throw something big enough through it. And Sherlock Holmes is certainly too big for a spider to handle. No, I always thought Moriarty was more of a snake. He's cold and cunning, with sharp eyes and poison in his every strike. He's the snake's head, you see. The brain. The ideas, the decisions, they all come from him. And the body follows. 

"Now, with a snake, when you cut off the head...well, the body dies. And I know if Moriarty falls, so will everything he's built." 

Moran stared at John with narrow eyes, something sparking behind the anger and pain. 

John leaned towards Moran, his leg screaming, his head pounding, his heart crying out for Sherlock. And he whispered, just loud enough for his would-be murderer to hear,

"And I intend to see Moriarty fall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anybody noticed and/or cares, I do have a different opinion on Moriarty and his network of criminals than most people do. I know it's not canon, but I really do think that once Moriarty fell, his network would too. Unless, of course, you do what Moriarty did in the season 2 finale. 
> 
> And speaking of seasons, who else is dying for season three to hurry its ass up and come out already?!?! 
> 
> Oh, and personal bit here: I DO NOT LIKE THE JOHNSTACHE. Everyone on my Tumblr is adoring it and I'm just...no. NO. 
> 
> Anyway. New chappie will be up soon! :) Story should be coming to a close in the next few installments. Maybe four at the most. 
> 
> Unless I throw another plot twist in there. 
> 
> Because I'm just that unpredictable! >:D


	22. Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohohohohoho, I've got my mojo back! ^o^

"What do you mean, he's not in the flat?" Mycroft Holmes snarled into his mobile. 

"Exactly that, sir. Sebastian Moran is here, unconcious. Blood all over the place. But no Watson. Either Moran had an accomplice who took the doctor and left him, or Watson wandered off on his own." Anthea's voice was short and calm, her tone clipped as she stared down at the mess in the middle of 221b. EMTs where hefting the half-dead Sebastian Moran onto a stretcher to cart him to the hospital, and the landlady-Mrs. Hudson-was standing in the hall, speaking to one of the men. 

"-only popped out to get some shopping, and when I came back, you lot were here-" the older woman tittered, looking slightly shaken. 

"Check the tapes. Find out where he went." Mycroft glared at the interior of his car, rapping at the window seperating the front and back halves. 

"Yes, sir?" the driver asked through the speaker. 

"Take me back to the office," the elder Holmes snapped. "Watson is not at Baker Street." 

Now, how to tell Sherlock his beloved had gone AWOL....

~*~

"John's WHAT?" 

Morris Green was a simple man. He liked his simple job driving cabs, and liked his simple life with simple passangers and his simple schedule. 

He did not like Sherlock Holmes, who was, as a matter of fact, anything _but_ simple. 

The strange man had piled into his cab in downtown Cardiff, thrown over a hundred pounds at him and demanded that Morris drive him to London. Now, technically, the simple cabbie wasn't supposed to drive anybody more than ten miles outside of city limits, but the glare the young, dark-haired man had sent him once he'd started to slow outside of Cardiff had him pressing down on the pedal again. For a while, the passenger in Morris's cab had been absorbed in his mobile, only glancing up to make sure that the cab hadn't slowed (if Morris dropped below more than five over the limit, the young man glared daggers at the back of his head) or to stare impatiently out the window. 

Now the mad man was on the phone, which really wasn't that uncommon of an occurance in the back of a cab, but this one was so bloody _loud._

"You lost him? You _LOST HIM?_ How do you _LOSE_ SOMEONE, Mycroft? You're the whole bloody British government rolled up into _one fat tosser_ , and you can't keep track of ONE BLOODY MAN-no, don't you ' _Sherlock, language_ ' me, Mycroft Avery Holmes! This is not-no, I'm on my way-of course I'm in a bloody cab! ...that doesn't really matter right now. No. No, I don't-I DON'T CARE if he's not allowed to drive me from Cardiff to London! I have bigger problems right now, Mycroft! Like a murderer in my flat and my blogger going off on a lark when _you_ said-YOU SAID you had him under _surveillance!_ I put my trust in you _one effing time_ -what? Oh, no, that's ridiculous. John's probably looking for Moriarty. Honestly, Mycroft. Has going off the diet addled your brain?" 

Morris gritted his teeth and chanted his three children's names over and over in his head so he could think of something else than the madman in his backseat. 

This was going to be a _long_ drive. 

~*~

The address had been ambigous, at best. Corner of Crabtree Manorway North and Fisher's Way in Belverdee. Not all that much to go on. 

But John had let Moran slip into unconciousness, and tied a tourniquet around his thigh and bandaged his leg wound with supplies from the emergency kit he kept in the bathroom. While he was in there, John wiped his face and hands clean of blood and changed into clean jeans and a shirt. The shirt was Sherlock's, but John didn't think he'd make it up the stairs to his own wardrobe, so he buttoned the dark blue silk, thankful that this one seemed to be a size or two too large for the detective (though that might explain why he didn't wear it often) and that Sherlock had a habit of leaving his laundry strewn all about through the flat. John tucked Moran's gun into the back of his jeans, and pulled his cane out of the corner of the flat where Sherlock liked to stack various debris. 

Just before he left, John paused at the piano, gently playing out the opening notes to his and Sherlock's song. 

His phone vibrated insistently from where he'd left it on the coffee table just as the door snapped shut behind him.

~*~

Mycroft had a team, headed by Anthea, scanning the CCTV videos from around London, trying to spot Doctor Watson after he'd left 221b. The bloody man had gotten into a cab and headed east, but after that, Mycroft's survelliance had, for the first time, failed him. Somehow, Doctor Watson was avoiding the cameras. 

This, to say the least, irritated Mycroft to no end. 

"Any sign?" the elder Holmes rested his hand on Anthea's shoulder, his eyes running over her three computer screens. The woman had one hand flying rapidly over the keys, the other tapping at her Blackberry while her eyes flicked back and forth between her phone and the computer. The computer was flicking rapidly between different CCTV camera shots, the program she had running scanning for any sign of the doctor. 

"Nothing," Anthea's voice was sour, her fingers clicking away without pause. "Not a sign. I think someone is interfering with the network. Keeping us from seeing him. Something bigger is at play, here, sir." 

"Yes," Mycroft murmured, watching her computer work feverishly over the images brought up by the cameras. "I believe you are right." 

~*~

Sherlock was about ten minutes away from strangling someone when he finally arrived back in London. The cabbie was the most obvious choice, while he was contemplating a murder, but that would be rather counterproductive to arriving at 221b sooner rather than later. 

So the detective sat in the back of the cab and seethed, glaring daggers at the back of the poor cabbie's head, except when he checked his phone every few minutes.  
When the cab finally, finally, pulled up in front of 221b, Sherlock leaped out of the vehicle and ran for the door. 

Morris Green was more than happy to see him go. 

~*~

Sherlock burst into the flat he shared with John to be met with silence. 

Mycroft's investigators and minions had come and gone long before Sherlock had arrived in London, and Mrs. Hudson was over at Mrs. Turner's, probably watching telly and trying to calm her nerves (the poor woman saw many horrible things with Sherlock as a tenant, but this level of violence had been a first), so the detective was alone.  
Immedietely he set to work, his eyes sweeping over the scene. 

Blood. There was blood all over the place, since no one had yet to come and clean it up. There was a pool of it in the middle of the sitting room, and and it was smeared and splattered across the rug, the door way, and some of it was in the sink of the bathroom. Sherlock wasn't positive, but he was fairly sure that Moran hadn't gone into the bathroom to wash his hands after being shot. 

John, on the other hand....

**_Have you completed the analysis of the scene? -SH_ **

The detective paced the flat, and noticed a smudge of dried mud on the edge of the carpet. Not from John's shoes, certainly. Moran's, then. The dark-haired man knelt and scraped some of it off into his palm, hurrying to his microscope in the kitchen. 

**_Yes. There were two different types of blood. The intruder's and Doctor Watson's. }MH_ **

Sherlock set his mouth in a snarl. John had been injured, and was now running about London looking for Moriarty. By himself. 

"Fool," Sherlock muttered as he peered down at the sample of dried mud. He analyzed the particulates, then did a quick search through his Mind Palace for where it had most likely come from. Bank of the Thames. Sediment and mineral deposits suggested east of here. Quickly, Sherlock narrowed down the area, and then abandoned the flat. 

~*~

Mycroft stared at Anthea, a twitch quickly forming in his right eye. 

"What do you mean," he said softly, "that Sherlock has vanished, too?" 

"Just that, sir," the woman answered, her face empty and cold. "Same as the doctor. He got in a cab, and just dropped out of sight. There must be someone interferring with the CCTV." 

"Then find out who it is, and remove them from the equation! Find my brother!" Mycroft shouted, rising to his feet. "I want this resolved _now!_ " 

~*~

The warehouse on the corner of Manorway North and Fisher's Way in Belverdee was large and clean-cut, with a modern style and metal roof. There was a chainlink fence around it, and guards at the gate. John limped along the sidewalk past them, keeping his head down and leaning heavily on his cane. They barely glanced at him. 

Once he rounded the corner, John glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and then proceeded to try and climb the fence. 

The first time, he attempted it as if he hadn't been shot in the leg less than two hours ago, and hadn't been bleeding from said shot for long enough to start making him a bit dizzy. 

His leg flat out refused to cooperate when he tried to jump up onto the fence and haul himself over. He fell, staggering on his bad leg, and then regarded the eight foot high chainlink for a moment. 

And threm himself at it again. His leg cried out in pain, but he clung onto the metal fence with his hands, his face twisted in determination. He would not let a measly little fence get in his way, not when he'd come this far. Snarling, he raised his hand to grasp at the top of the fence. His good foot slipped, and he fell again, landing hard on his injured limp. 

Pain burst through John's body in a flash of white. 

~*~

Sherlock got out of the cab and walked along the street until he came to the end of it, then jumped over the barrier and went down to the bank of the river. From there, he headed upstream, his eyes sweeping for any signs of Moran's boot print. 

_**Where are you? }MH** _

Sherlock smirked. So, Mycroft's cameras did not extend down to the river banks. Interesting. He ignored the text and continued to search. 

~*~

John sank his teeth through his lip to keep himself from screaming. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his body was setting off every alarm it could reach, overloading his brain. 

Agony. 

After a couple of minutes of lying on the concrete, John sucked a breath in through his nose, and pushed himself back to his feet with his cane. And he tried again. Slowly, he hauled himself up the fence, and made it all the way to the top. Huffing, he dropped his cane over the other side, and then tumbled himself over. John wheezed as the wind was knocked from his lungs, and the doctor laid there for a moment, staring up at the gloomy London sky. 

"Well. Made it over the fence," he whispered, slowly sitting up. Taking stock of himself, John noticed that his ribs were complaining almost as loudly as his leg, which was starting to bleed through his bandages to darken his trouser leg. "Shit. Well, okay." Taking a deep breath, John hobbled to his feet and started limping towards the building. He hid behind a service truck as the guards switched shifts, pacing back towards the warehouse. John followed them, ducking behind stacked crates and another, sleeker car as they approached a door of to the side of a bigger door meant for letting in shipping vehicles. 

John watched them go inside from behind the sleek car, then followed them in a few minutes later. 

~*~

Sherlock crouched down on the bank, running his hands over the imprints in the mud. Boot prints. Matched the tread from Moran's shoes. The detective looked up and around, and spotted a modern-looking warehouse nearby. 

"Found you," Sherlock said softly, jumping up and running for the building. 

~*~

"Sir, we've tracked down the interference," Anthea appeared in Mycroft's office, her fingers working furiously over her mobile. 

"Excellent. Where is it coming from?" Mycroft's fingers folded together on top of his desk. 

"Warehouse on the Thames." 

"Send out whatever we can throw together in the next fifteen minutes-" 

"Already on it, sir." Anthea smiled as Mycroft looked up at her. 

"Good. Hurry it up if you can; Sherlock and his doctor are probably already there. I am sure they shall be needing out help shortly." 

~*~

The warehouse was nicely lit, and full of stacked crates forming corridors and rooms. John slowly made his way through, drawing the gun tucked in the back of his jeans and trying not to lean too much on his cane. The place was empty; there was no sign of the two guards that had come inside. The back of the doctor's neck prickled; he felt as he did before the night in Afghanistan, when his entire unit had died. 

He didn't like that feeling. 

John found a staircase leading up to the next floor. Taking a deep breath, he started up it. 

~*~

Sherlock jumped the fence around the back side of the warehouse, and ran closer to the building. It was paranoia-inducingly unguarded, and Sherlock felt a terrible sense of foreboding that there weren't guards at every door. He slipped in a window at the back, and found himself in a maze of crates. Slowly, carefully, he made his way through them, finding no one. 

But then Sherlock found a droplet of red on the floor. _Blood._ Kneeling, he touched it light. _Still wet._ Relatively fresh, then. 

John was here. 

Sherlock looked up and down the make-shift corridor he was in, and found blood in each direction. He went right first, and the blood was older, drier. To the left, then. 

He stood and strode along, following the occasional droplet of blood here and there. 

~*~

John came to the top of the stairs, his cane hooked over his arm as he pointed his gun ahead of him. His limp was bad without the support of his cane, and he was leaving an ever-thicker trail of blood behind him. But none of that really mattered now. He could hear voices ahead. And one of them was familiar, high-pitched, sickeningly eager, and with the slightest lilt to it that spoke of cruelty. 

_Moriarty._

John took a deep breath, steadying himself. He was hurt, dizzy, losing blood at an alarming rate, and completely, totally alone. Needless to say, he was at a major disadvantage considering that Moriarty was not all by himself up there. 

But it didn't really matter at this point. If he didn't move now, he might not get this chance again. 

And this needed to end. 

~*~

Sherlock found that the blood trail thickened the further he followed it, and himself worrying more and more over John's condition. How badly was he hurt? And why, in the name of all that was logical and sane, was he running off after a mastermind super criminal while wounded and alone? 

The detective shook his head as he found himself at the bottom of stairs. 

And then he heard the sharp, bark, bark, bark, of a gun going off, and several startled shouts. 

_John._

~*~

The doctor emerged from the stairs to find that he was in a large loft-like area, nicely furnished with plush white carpet and leather furniture. There was a dark mahogony desk, with a dark leather chair at it. And in that chair sat a man that John found he hated with all his soul. There were also others, men in dark suits, all burly types that made John look like a twig. 

But that didn't stop John from taking that last step forward, leaving a red shoe-print on the carpet, and squeezing off a few rounds at Moriarty's face. This wasn't the time for a dramatic speech, or to give the bastard a chance to change his ways. John was already outnumbered, injured and ready to just go to sleep for ten years. So he just shot, hoping that one would hit. 

But none did. One of the men threw himself in front of Moriarty, taking the shots to the chest and shoulder. The other ran at John, and took him out at the legs. The doctor shouted out a curse, pain sparking from his wound. The man took John to the ground and wrestled the gun out of his hands. John didn't put up too much of a fight; it all just hurt so much. 

"Well! How _rude_ of you," Moriarty's voice piped up as the goon hauled John back to his feet, holding his arms behind him. The consulting criminal leaned back in his leather chair and put his feet up on the desk, as though a man hadn't just died for him, as if John had merely just tracked mud into his house. 

Well. It was blood. But that seemed to be the biggest thing Moriarty was focusing on, frowning at the bloody footprints John was leaving on the white carpet. 

"My, my, my," Moriarty smiled. "It seems that Sebastian wasn't a complete failure after all. You are injured, though not dead as I specified. Tut, tut, and he's always done so well in the past. Oh, well. First time for everything. I suppose I'll just have to kill you myself." Moriarty raised one hand, as if to snap his fingers. "Luke, darling, would you so kindly break the doctor's neck? He's made enough of a mess on my floor without gutting him or cutting his throat." And then Moriarty did flick his fingers, letting out a soft _snap_. 

John struggled in earnest as one large hand grabbed his face, the other arm wrapping around his shoulders from behind, gun still clutched tightly in his fingers. And then the man began to pull. 

~*~

Sherlock ran up the stairs as fast as his long legs would carry him, striving not to slip in the splashes of blood on the stairs. 

He emerged at onto the second floor to see a body lying bleeding on the carpet, Moriarty sitting behind a desk smiling, and a large man grabbing John by the head and shoulders in preperation to break his neck. 

With a strangled shout, Sherlock jumped forward and pushed at the man, causing him to fall. He sort of squished John in the process, but it was better than the alternative. Moriarty bolted straight up, looking shocked and furious. 

"You are supposed to be in _Cardiff!_ " he shouted, jumping out of his chair. 

"Sorry for the inconvienience," Sherlock smirked, kicking the goon in the face and knocking him out. "Oh, wait. No I'm not." The detective started for Moriarty, pulling the handcuffs he'd nicked off Lestrade. "Now, Jim, I know this isn't how we wanted it to end, but I can't say I don't want you to face justice for the women you killed yesterday." Moriarty's mouth stretched into a thin smile. 

"Oh, but it's not _you_ that wants to see me face the courts. It's your precious doctor. You're doing this for him. How sweet. If it were up to you, you'd have kept playing the game," Moriarty laughed. "We've been having such _fun,_ Sherlock, don't you think? Did you like the little puzzle I left for you in the park? And did you like seeing Irene again? And the room? Didn't you like John's room? So _clever_ , don't you think?" 

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. 

"Oh, but it's true, you know. We were made for each other, Sherlock. Two halves of a whole. Two pieces of a puzzle, fitting so perfectly to each other. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal," Moriarty's smile turned into a smirk. "Almost poetic, don't you think? Now, why don't you get down your knees nice and slow," Moriarty slowly reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a black semi-automatic shotgun, pointing it first at Sherlock, then at John, who was squirming out from under the unconcious Luke, his face white with pain. "And remember, my dear, you've already shown your hand. _I know your weakness!_ " The last sentence came out in sing-song, and Sherlock felt a shiver of loathing. 

But he did as he was told, and slowly got onto his knees, hands up by the sides of his head. His eyes ran over Moriarty and the room around them, but couldn't see any way out of this situation. Unless, perhaps, if Mycroft came charging in with the calvary. 

But even in that scenario, John was still likely to die from one last shot by Moriarty. 

~*~

This had to be one of the worst days of John's life. Well, actually, this had to be the worst year. 

Kidnapped and held prisioner for months on end? _Check._

Realize just a little late that he was in love with his flatmate and suffer through a confusing sexuality crisis? _Check._

See each and every one of his exes murdered and pinned up on a tree in some sick sort of revenge? _Check._

Watch Sherlock Holmes completely helpless before the maddest man either of them had ever met (with perhaps Sherlock himself as the exception) because John was so frustratingly useless? _Check._

And now here he was, faced with yet another horrible situation. 

So, as John stared upside-down at the shotgun pointed more or less at his face, he realized that the handgun was inches from his right hand. It was right there. Within easy reach. And Moriarty was still looking at Sherlock, gloating. The doctor took a small breath through his nose, and turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock. The detective was only a few feet away, too far to touch, but close enough to make John want to try. But he knew it was useless at this point. John sighed. His right hand crept a little closer to the handgun. His fingers brushed the metal, wrapping around the handle and pulling it closer. 

John glanced at Sherlock one last time, trying to memorize what he could of the younger man's features. John took a long, deep, steadying breath. 

And that was how John Watson made the decision to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLOT TWIST!!! 
> 
> oh. erm. I'm sorry. 
> 
> This has just sort of become its own monster. I've lost all control. 
> 
> Send help.


	23. Nothingness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short one, but wanted to get this up before I got to work on the rest of my day.

"Oh, but it's true, you know. We were made for each other, Sherlock. Two halves of a whole. Two pieces of a puzzle, fitting so perfectly to each other. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal. Almost poetic, don't you think? Now, why don't you get down your knees nice and slow. And remember, my dear, you've already shown your hand. I know your weakness!" Moriarty looked much too smug in John's opinion, having Sherlock on his knees. And what he'd said sort of irked him, too. Honestly, he'd just had it with Moriarty. John was _tired._

"Oi," John grunted, but Moriarty ignored him, focused entirely on the look of realization on Sherlock's face. "You're not his other half," John muttered, raising the gun and taking aim, "I am." 

And then, as Moriarty's head swung around in shock and anger, John squeezed the trigger. The consulting criminal's head snapped back, his body jerking as the bullet took him through his forehead. The shotgun went off with an almighty _BLAM_ , and John's world went red.

~*~

"John!" Sherlock cried as Moriarty's body fell back and the shotgun's blast took John in the chest. The doctor cried out and his body convulsed before going limp. 

"Sher...lock..." John gasped as the detective fell to his knees beside him, hands scrabbling to push John's jumper up, revealing the dark blue shirt underneath. 

_He's wearing my shirt_ , Sherlock realized, a little bewildered and distracted by the fact. But it didn't matter right now, because red was blooming like a flower across the blue silk. 

"John," Sherlock fumbled with the buttons, trying to get the material open so he could inspect the wound. "John!" The doctor let out a small, hissing grunt that worried Sherlock as the detective looked up at John's face. There was blood leaking from between the blond man's lips. Something cold trickled down Sherlock's spine, and his hands scrambled for his mobile. He had several missed texts and two missed calls, one with a voicemail, but Sherlock ignored them all, hitting 3 on his speed dial. 

"Sherlock?" answered a smooth, and slightly irritated voice. 

"John," the detective choked, pressing his fingers into the wound he'd found on the right side of John's chest, trying to stop the bleeding. "John-the hospital-please, Mycroft!" 

"We're tracking your phone now. The interference in the network went down a minute ago. I'll be there in two minutes. Don't hang up," Mycroft sounded a little alarmed, and Sherlock dropped his phone to the floor, but didn't end the call. Mycroft would find them soon enough, but right now, Sherlock wanted-no, _needed_ -to focus on John. 

"John? John, answer me," Sherlock unwound his scarf from around his neck and pressed it into John's injury, his eyes glancing between his bloody hands and the doctor's face. 

"Caahhnnn....t... _breea...thhhe..._ " John whispered, his eyes rolling sightlessly in their sockets. "Shrrr...lah? Mm....scared." 

"It's okay, it's okay, John, you'll be okay," Sherlock whispered, pressing the already-soaked scarf tighter against the bullet wound. He struggled to keep his brain from deducing, but it was impossible, ( _wound to upper right side of chest, heavy bleeding, most likely scenario: punctured lung and shattered ribs from the bullet; internal bleeding, possible he could drown in his own blood or die of suffocation before he could be taken to a hospital_ -) and Sherlock hated it. 

~*~

Mycroft's car pulled up outside the warehouse, along with six others, and as he stepped calmly out of the vehicle, he watched as his men quickly swarmed the building. 

"Have an ambulance summoned. One of ours," Mycroft said, hanging up his phone at last. His mind was whirling with the sound of his brother trying to reassure a gravely wounded Watson, and the elder Holmes was unsure how it would affect Sherlock, should the doctor actually die. 

"On its way, sir," Anthea replied, sliding out of the car behind him, Blackberry in hand. 

~*~

Sound and color blurred together until Sherlock's voice sounded like blue and red and green, and the footsteps of other people sounded like black and grey and white. Another voice sounded from above his head, pink and yellow and orange. There was the sudden sensation of hands everywhere, too many hands, too many sounds and colors, and John struggled to cry out, to move. But he couldn't seem to. His body was heavy, too heavy to twitch a finger, let alone thrash. Every breath he drew bubbled and burned and rasped, red and white and black as the sound echoed in his own ears. It hurt. The pain was a bright, pure white, a screaming siren in his head and in his body, and he wanted to scream with it. 

It was different from the shot in Afghanistan, a small, sane part of him noticed, deep down inside his brain, far away from the pain and confused senses. The shot in Afghanistan had been hot-sharp-numbness-agony-darkness, but this wound was bright-colors and screaming silently, the soft drag of lungs filling up with blood and a thudding heart that was trying to save him but only pushing him closer and closer to the edge of death with every panicked thump, every gush of crimson that escaped through his wounds. 

He could feel Sherlock's hands on him, too. Through all the others touching him, pulling his clothing aside, lifting him, moving him, he could feel Sherlock's hands, one tightly clutching the limp fingers of John's right hand, the other on his uninjured shoulder. 

He didn't quite realize it when the darkness surged up from inside, growing and swelling and consuming him, until everything was empty, everything was quiet, and John Watson was lost to nothingness. 

~*~

The machines hooked up to John's body in the back of the ambulance started whooping and wailing, and Sherlock nearly had a heart attack, his eyes flicking from one machine to the next, absorbing, processing, deducing. But even though he reached the same conclusion over and over, his brain simply couldn't accept what the data was telling him. The EMTs next to him were shouting and fumbling with medical equipment, but Sherlock couldn't hear them. He could only stare at John's face, slack under the oxygen mask, could only feel the limp fingers threaded through his own. One sound overwhelmed him, or rather, the lack of one did. 

_John wasn't breathing_. He'd died, right there, right next to him; he'd slipped out of Sherlock's grasp like the detective had been trying to capture smoke with his bare hands or scoop up water with a slotted spoon. 

And Sherlock wanted to scream. 

Instead he leaned forward and grabbed John's face in both hands as the EMTs rubbed two paddles together behind him, his mind working madly. 

"Clear!" one of the men shouted, pressing the paddles to John's chest. The unconcious man's body jerked, and remained lifeless. 

" _No_..." Sherlock breathed, staring down at the empty face of the man he loved. "No, John, don't do this, don't leave me, for God's sake, come back to me John, I need you, please, please, John, _please!_ " 

~*~

"John Watson's condition status just changed," Anthea anounced as their car slipped back into traffic, heading for the hospital. 

"To what, exactly?" Mycroft asked, looking over at her. Her face was grim as she typed away. 

"Deceased. He just died in the back of the ambulance." 

~*~

It was nice here. Dark, quiet, and peaceful. He liked it here. This was a good place. 

But...something felt wrong. Something was missing. What was it? He thought for a while, and realized what it was. He wasn't hurting. He wasn't worried. He felt....empty. 

It was a strange sensation. He didn't neccessarily like it, but couldn't find it within him to really put feeling into that dislike of feeling empty. There was nothing in him to feel with. No pain. No worry. Not even anger or hate or fear. And God knew that he should be feeling fear and hate. He'd died a rather horrible death, hadn't he? Shot in the chest by a madman, wounded and desperate and so bloody _tired_. Bloody awful way to go. He'd always imagined he'd die from old age, after meeting some nice girl, settling down, having a couple kids, and watching his grandkids grow. But instead, here he was, floating in nothing, contemplating the fact that he'd died a pretty darn violent and most certainly not-of-natural-causes death he could have gotten himself into. He wanted to snort, but realized that he had no body to complete the action with. Odd realization, that. 

_Really, what had I been thinking?_ he wondered, going back over his final moments. It was all strangely blurry and smeared, like someone had dragged a cloth over wet paint. 

But then there was one clear thing: a face. In profile, with dark curls and strange green eyes. Sharp cheekbones and thin lips, the pale skin striking above the dark blue scarf and coat. 

_Sherlock_. 

Oh. 

So that was it, he thought disjointedly. That was what he'd died for. Who he'd died for. Why had he done that? Surely the detective could have gotten them out of that situation without this mess. 

That look of cold resignation, then of bright panic. Had he realized that not only was his own death immenient, but John's, too? Was that why Sherlock had looked so, well, frightened? 

Silly man. Ridiculous child. 

He felt this strange flicker, like a spark, deep inside himself with the sense of irritation. Interesting. But as it faded, apathy faded, and with it his curiosity about the spark. He went back to thinking about Sherlock. 

A flow of memories streamed past, filling up the nothingness with image after image of a tall, dark-haired, pale man. Leaning over a microscope, playing the violin, staring down at a body, leaping about the flat in excitment, shooting the wall in frustration. Pushing his food around his plate like a child. Sulking face-down on the floor. Watching him with intelligent eyes that made a shiver of heat sliver down his spine. Leaning over him, a small smirk playing about his lips as he blushed. 

_Sherlock._

Heat, hot and bright and blinding, exploded inside of him, followed by pain, a sharp thud that felt more like a jolt of life screaming through his veins, over-charging his heart and making his body jerk and arch under the burning metal pressed to his chest, yanking him back from the calm nothing to the bright, noisy, painful everything. 

~*~

John's body bowed beneath the paddles as the EMTs tried on a last-ditch effort to revive him, and suddenly, the man on the gurney was jerking and twitching and coughing, struggling to scream but instead only spitting up blood before finally vomiting, and one of the medical team reached over and yanked the oxygen mask off his face, turning John on his side. The ex-soilder's eyes rolled up into his head as he sprayed Sherlock with gore, and the detective didn't even care because it meant John was alive. The relief was short-lived, however, as the doctor's body stiffened, then spasmed, another wave of blood flowing from his mouth, splattering Sherlock, the wall of the ambulance, the floor, everywhere. 

_So much blood._

Sherlock wasn't bothered by blood. Please, the very idea of it was laughable. But the sight of John, bruised, bloody, already dead and then brought back once, vomiting what seemed like every drop of blood in his body up, scared the detective shitless. 

"What's going on?" he demanded, turning to one of the EMTs and grabbing his shoulder. 

"Please, Mr. Holmes, let us do our jobs and sit there quietly, or I'll throw you out of the back door of the bloody ambulance myself!" the man shouted back at him, pushing him back into the seat and turning back to John. Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's hand, desperate to be holding onto him in some way, any way. The voices of the EMTs and the wailing of the machines blurred into one loud smear of noise in his head as he felt the vehicle lurch forward with a renewed sense of urgency. 

~*~

"Watson's been revived, sir," Anthea said, her face sheet white. "But it's not looking good. They're almost to the hospital." 

"I expect they are prepared for his arrival?" Mycroft was tapping the tip of his umbrella impatiently on the floor of the car. 

"Yes, sir. Best staff and equipment ready to recieve him," Anthea nodded. 

"Good." 

~*~

The ambulance screeched to a halt in the recieving bay of the emergency ward, and the doors were thrown open. Sherlock clung to the edge of the gurney as the medical team removed John from the ambulance and moved him inside. 

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to-" one woman began, but Sherlock grabbed her by the throat of her nice turtleneck sweater, his face livid. 

"If you even try to seperate me from him, I'll ruin you all," the detective hissed, shoving her away and running along with the team of doctors and nurses hurrying John into the hospital. They rushed inside, into the elevator and to the emergency surgery, where they started hooking John up to various machines and IV bags, and then Molly was somehow there, grabbing Sherlock's arm. 

"Molly, I swear I'll-" Sherlock began, trying to shake her off. 

"Sherlock, listen to me!" she cried. "They're going to take him to surgery. You're only going to get in the way. Please, listen to me! You can't-you'll only make it harder on yourself! For God's sake, I don't want you to have to-just, please, Sherlock, please, come with me." The detective stared down at the mousy little mortitian, who was sobbing and clinging to his forearm with all her might. He glanced around at John, who was lying on the gurney, still spasming and coughing up blood. 

"Mr. Holmes, we need to move him now," one doctor said sharply, pointedly looking at Molly. The message was clear. Either get his arse in gear and run with the rest of them, or go with Molly. 

"I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock said softly. "I can't leave him." 

And then he freed himself from her and ran with one hand firmly attached to the wheeled bed that held John. 

~*~

Hours. 

John had been in surgery for hours. 

Mycroft stood silently in the hall of the hospital, watching Anthea sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair beside him. For once, her fingers were still, and she was staring blankly at the wall across from her. Moriarty was dead, his body in the morgue awaiting autopsy, along with the other body from the scene. The unconcious man they'd found was in a prison cell, and all over the country, the world, even, Mycroft knew Moriarty's empire was crumbling, causing chaos throughout the criminal world. There was mountains of work to be done, but the elder Holmes could barely tap his fingers along the handle of his brolly, let alone bring himself to leave the hospital. 

Sherlock was with John. 

Anthea was silent. 

There was nothing to do but wait. 

Wait, and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm. Don't hate me.


	24. Heart of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired.....zzzzZZZZzzzzz....hm? Oh. Erm, I'll try to get another chappie up tomorrow. Story is coming to a close soon. :3

Two days. 

Two days with no sleep, no food, no reassurance. No smiling faces, no relieved expressions. 

Only sympathetic glances, evasive answers, and downcast eyes. And John, laying still and white and silent in a hospital bed, looking more old and tired than Sherlock had ever seen him. The surgery had snatched John back from the brink of death, though not by much. He was still in critical condition, and in a coma. John required at least two more surgeries, one of which was scheduled to happen in less than an hour, but there was little hope of him pulling through the last if he didn't reawaken from the coma. 

The detective sat in a chair next to the hospital bed, his eyes fixed on John's face, under the oxygen mast and tubes and suction cups all monitoring his body and vital signs. The EEG monitor to the side of John's bed was facinating; Sherlock could watch the signals sent from John's brain flow across the screen, assuring all that John was not brain dead. Sherlock's eyes focussed on the monitor, watching John's brainwaves roll out across it. He sat there for hours, barely noticing the nurses coming and going as they periodically checked on John, and flat-out ignored Mycroft when he came to try and convince the detective to sleep or eat. 

Sherlock would not be moved. 

He sat by John's bedside, and waited. 

~*~

The brightness and noise had faded away again, until John was in a dark, cool, calm place again. It was different this time, though. He wasn't empty, he didn't feel hollow. He felt afraid. And he could feel waves of pain battering at the edges of his bubble of calm. But that was okay. As long as he stayed here, in this safe place, nothing could hurt him. He'd be fine, as long as he stayed right where he was, tucked down deep inside his own head. 

~*~

After the second surgery, the doctors informed Mycroft (who, in turn, informed Sherlock) that they were going to give John 24 hours to wake, and then proceed with the last surgery even if he didn't regain conciousness. The only difference was that John had a eighty-seven percent more chance of dying during the last surgery if he didn't wake up. But if they didn't do the surgery at all, or delayed it any longer than a day, John would die no matter what. 

Sherlock refused to look at Mycroft when he told him. 

The detective hadn't spoken a word since John had first gone into sugery, and wasn't showing any signs of speaking again any time soon. Instead, he simply watched over John, his eyes moving from the EEG screen, to the heart monitor, to John's face, and back. Sherlock watched, and waited, refusing to think about what might happen if John never woke up. If John stopped breathing again. 

Sherlock wasn't sure he could survive John dying again. 

~*~

A few hours before John was to go back into surgery for the last time, Mycroft stood silently in the door to the private hospital suite, watching his brother. Sherlock was still sitting in the chair, though his face was pressed against John's mattress and his hands were dangling down between his ankles. 

It seemed, after four days without sleep or food, exhaustion had finally caught up to the great detective. 

Mycroft sighed and looked over at the still form of Doctor Watson. The man looked as though he still stood under the shadow of death, his skin pale and dry around the clear mask, his body unnaturally still save for the slow, even pace of his breath. Even Sherlock, who was dead to the world for all intents and purposes, looked more alive than John Watson did. 

The elder Holmes cleared his throat, shifting from foot to foot. 

Sherlock did not stir. 

Mycroft walked closer to him and gently placed his hand on his shoulder, and said softly, "Sherlock. Wake up." The detective twitched violently under Mycroft's hand, and then sat up quickly, the fingers of his left hand catching the older man's wrist in a painful grip. Sherlock's eyes were wild and confused for a moment, before clearing. 

"Don't touch me," Sherlock snapped, letting go of Mycroft with a look of disgust. Mycroft smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. 

"The surgery is scheduled to happen in a few hours. And Doctor Watson still has not woken," Mycroft said softly. Sherlock looked over at John, and his face fell a little.

"Sherlock....I know that it is probably only nonsense and wishful thinking, but it is said that speaking to someone in a coma sometimes brings them back." Sherlock scoffed. But Mycroft could see that Sherlock was afraid. Deathly afraid, and terrified to show it. The elder Holmes sighed. "Sherlock...you will think me foolish, but...it is alright to be scared. Fear is the heart of love." 

The detective turned and glared up at his brother. "You're right. You are being foolish. Now go away and leave me alone. John is strong. He will pull through on his own." 

~*~

After Mycroft left, Sherlock laid his head back down on John's bed, one hand grasping at the limp fingers at John's side. Sherlock felt little life in John's hand. The skin was cool and clammy, the fingers limp and dead. 

It is probably only nonsense and wishful thinking, but it is said that speaking to someone in a coma sometimes brings them back. 

Wishful thinking. Sherlock raised his head and stared up at John's empty face. There was so little of his doctor in that face, when it was empty of life and emotion. The body in the bed looked like John, smelled like John, but did not _feel_ like John. 

"John," Sherlock mumbled, squeezing the doctor's hand. "John?" Nothing. The detective blew out a breath, feeling ridiculous. He rose out of his chair a little, leaning over the blond man. Gently, he pressed his lips to John's forehead. "John...please, wake up. I need you here. You need to wake up. I'm...so...scared," the detective admitted through gritted teeth. "Please, John. I..." Sherlock swallowed, his eyes flicking over John's slack face. "I love you, John." 

~*~

He felt so tired. So close to sleep. Floating in the small, safe place inside his head, John could feel himself slipping deeper and deeper into the recesses of his mind. And it was so easy to let himself. 

_"John."_

He blinked, and opened his eyes. Darkness. He couldn't see anything. But he could still hear. 

_"John...please, wake up. I need you here. You need to wake up."_

The voice was as familiar as his own, and John wanted to get closer to that voice, as close as he could get. 

"I'm....so....scared. Please, John, I...." 

Sherlock. Sherlock, where are you? John suddenly felt less like he was floating and more like he was drowning. Sherlock! 

_"I love you."_

Light. 

~*~

Mycroft stood outside of John Watson's hospital room, looking down at his shoes as Sherlock murmured softly to his comatose lover. Almost lover? Mycroft frowned. He tapped his fingers along the handle of his umbrella, pursing his lips. He should like to have that particular conumdrum cleared up. After all, Mummy would be most disappointed if Sherlock had managed to finally find someone and never told anyone. 

Suddenly, there was a startled shout from inside the hospital room, and Mycroft jumped in surprise. He turned and hurried inside, fearing the worst.

But instead finding Sherlock half-crawling onto the hospital bed, his hands cupping the head of Doctor Watson, whose own hands were weakly holding onto the detective's wrists, his tired eyes staring up at him, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Mycroft, too, could hardly process the sight before him. 

Sherlock was sobbing. 

~*~

John hurt like hell, even after the morphine and vikadin and other numbing drugs pumping through his system. And he was frankly rather terrified at the idea of being put under anesthesia. After all, he'd just woken from a coma. It was a little nerve-wracking to consider going back to that disturbingly calm place inside of him. 

"It's alright, John," Sherlock reassured him as the medical staff prepped him for surgery. "I promise, you'll wake up again. And I'll be right here when you do. I promise." John nodded hesitantly, ignoring the calm, placating smiles of the doctors and focusing on Sherlock's face. The detective looked haggard, his face darkened by several days' stubble, his eyes red-rimmed from crying. 

"Alright," he said softly, reaching for Sherlock's hand and clutching it. "Alright." As the anesthesia dripped into his veins through the IV, slowly, everything went dark again. 

The last thing he remembered were Sherlock's eyes, watching him fall asleep again. 

~*~

Mycroft finally returned to his work, cleaning up after the mess Moariarty had left in his wake, and arranging to shield Sherlock and Doctor Watson from the brunt of the media's hunger for a bit of juicy news. Anthea had already cleared the bulk of the damage, but it was nice to return to his routine, now that Doctor Watson was out of danger. 

~*~

Sherlock paced the waiting room after the third hour of John in surgery. The doctor that had emerged twenty minutes ago that all was well, but Sherlock couldn't help but fear for his blogger. 

But after two more hours, a nurse emerged and informed him that John was out of surgery, and out of any immenient danger. Sherlock rushed into John's hospital room to find the man lying in bed, wonderfully awake, and white-faced from pain. 

But alive. John was going to be alright. 

"Sherlock," John turned his head and raised a hand weakly, reaching out for the detective. Instantly Sherlock bounded across the room and grabbed the other's outstretched fingers. 

"John," Sherlock breathed, wanting to examine every inch of the doctor and make sure he really, truly was alright. 

"Mmm," the man in the bed hummed as Sherlock ran his hands over John's face. He was free of the oxygen mask, but still had the tubes going up his nose and down his throat.

"You alright, Sherlock?" 

"Of course I'm alright," the detective said irritably. He'd not suffered even a bruise during this case, though he felt as though his whole Mind Palace had been turned on its side repeatedly during the last week or two. "Have you spoken with Mycroft?" 

"No," John said, seeming to be more interested in gently running his fingers through Sherlock's tangled and slightly greasy hair. "Have you taken care of yourself at all while I've been in here?" 

"He's barely left your side. When he was not permitted to be near you, he paced the waiting room and traumatized the staff," drawled Mycroft from where he stood in the door, leaning against the jamb and twirling his umbrella. Sherlock turned and scowled at him. "My younger brother has not lowered himself to eat or bathe for the last week, and he's barely slept at all." Mycroft's twitched up into a mocking smile. "I would be flattered if I were you, Doctor Watson." John's face, too, turned into a scowl as Mycroft continued to speak. "However, I am not here merely to socialize. I come with news." 

"What is it?" Sherlock snapped, irritated by Mycroft's superior manner. 

"Peace, Sherlock. Moriarity has been confirmed dead by a bullet through his skull, fired by one Doctor Watson in defense of himself and companion Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft rolled his eyes, as if bored. "Sebastian Moran survived the wound he sustained in 221b, also via Doctor Watson, also in self-defense, and will be going to trial for the murders of the nine women in the park, whose families will be compensated by the government for their losses. Also, somewhat mysteriously, around the same time all this happened, many of the greater criminal empires and several unsolved cases have been cracked and cleaned up, leading to a sudden drop in Great Britian's crime rate, especially in London. It's all quite strange, don't you think?" Mycroft winked, and with one more twirl of his umbrella, turned and left the room. 

"Well," John sighed, settling back against his pillow a bit more, "that's quite interesting." 

Sherlock scowled. "The crime rate dropping will mean less cases," he muttered. 

"Please, Sherlock," John sighed. "There will always be murder and crime sprees so long as humans live on the planet." 

"Yes," Sherlock said, frowning. "But it'll all die down for a while. And that's so _boring_." 

"And then there will be a pack of rabid criminals all duking it out to take Moriarty's place at the top of the dogpile, and you'll be having a bloody field day," John sighed, smiling fondly at the surly detective. "I'm sure we can find something to keep you entertained in the meantime." There was a playful edge to John's words, and Sherlock jerked his head up to stare at the man in the bed. His eyes were sparkling with mischeif despite the tired lines around them, and a small smile was twitching around the corners of his lips.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He jumped up and grabbed John's face, kissing him hard. 

"Ouch!" the older man yelped when Sherlock finally let him go. 

"Whoops," the detective breathed. 

"Bit enthusiastic, aren't we?" John panted, smirking despite the pain that tightened his features a bit. "You're going to have to be gentler, at least until I heal. Now, come here." John drew Sherlock back down, gently pressing another kiss to the detective's eager lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of changing my story summary, since it really doesn't say anything about the actual story anymore....anyone got any ideas? 
> 
> And please excuse any mistakes you find in here for now...I'm vewwy seepy....goin to bed neow. Ni'night, all.


	25. Deepening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the moment you've all been waiting for....

John was released from the hospital after four more weeks of care, with the strict instructions to remain in bed; he was to rest and avoid any mad dashing about London after criminals. But there wasn't much mad dashing to be done, truth be told. Sherlock had taken to accepting petty theiving and simple domestic violence cases from Lestrade to try and keep the boredom at bay. 

It wasn't working. 

John spent most of his time in his room, lying down reading, following the order to rest even while Sherlock started shooting the wall again downstairs. Mrs. Hudson stormed up and quickly put a stop to it, and John listened to her berate the detective shrilly while he moaned "BORED" at full volume, a small smile on his face. 

It was good to be home. 

~*~

By the end of the ninth day back at Baker Street, John was able to hobble down to the loo without Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson helping him down the stairs, though the doctor had to pause and stop every four or five steps to take a steadying couple of breaths and lean on his cane. The shot wound on his leg was healed up reasonably well, but he limped a bit, though the hospital assured him it would go away in time. There was no lasting damage. In six months to a year, he'd be good as new, with a bright, puckered scar on his right shoulder to match the starburst-shaped one on his left. 

Sherlock found the scars facinating, and when John was able to lie on the couch instead of in his bed, the detective spent much of his time studying the way the tissue was healing. John suspected it was part in due to Sherlock's rampaging boredom, and the obvious urge to touch that the detective was desperately (and frequently failing) to reel in. John didn't really mind, though. Sherlock's fingers were gentle and comforting, never pressing too hard or poking to deep around the healing flesh. 

When the angry red flush had begun to fade from around the bullet wound and the scars from his surgeries were little more than silvery lines running along his ribs, the criminal world had a surge of frantic activity, the predicted pack of rabid wolves rising to try and claim the title of alpha after Moriarty's fall. Sherlock and John were summoned by Lestrade to face off with the rapidly rising tide of murders that were causing the NSY to drown in its own paperwork. It started with a double murder, in a flat only half a mile from their own. Then there was a string of murdered junkies in east London. After that there was a woman strangled in an abandoned building, and then another hung upside down in a construction sight with her insides pulled out. The next was three well-known buisiness men, stalked and threatened and frightened into committing suicide in their own homes. 

John had rarely seen Sherlock happier. 

The detective was in his element, plucking case after case out of the pile of reports Lestrade brought by, running off to crime scenes with John in tow, solving killings left, right, and center. The papers were plastered with stories about the crime levels spiking to something truly frightening, and Scotland Yard's heroic effort to head it off. Sherlock was rarely mentioned about being involved, but the man barely seemed to care. The satisfied rush he recieved from solving a particularly sticky one was all he really cared about. 

"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed, examining the ninth dead body they'd seen this week, the third in a series of identical killings. "Clever, very clever, using an insect bite to hide the mark of needle. But not clever enough. Come on, John!" And then they were off again, chasing down a murderer and an accomplice who pulled a gun in the middle of a crowded street, causing a full blown panic/stampede, in turn causing the detective and his blogger to lose their quarry. 

"Damn!" John panted, spinning in circles as he tried to spot the fleeing criminals in the panicked crowd. His body was singing from the chase, though the right side of his chest seemed to ache with a slight internal pain. He suspected it was from the work out his just-recently completely-healed lung was experiencing with his every labored breath. 

Sherlock grabbed the sides of his head and started muttering to himself, twitching every couple of seconds. Then, with a satisfied cry, he took off again, leaving John to follow. They sprinted through the streets of London, and then found their murderers several blocks away. They chased them up a fire escape and across several roofs, John nearly missing one of the longer jumps. Sherlock tackled the murderer, causing the accomplice to skid to a stop, yanking out his gun. 

John let out a strangled shout in warning, and the detective threw himself out of the way as the accomplice fired off a round. The murderer screamed as he took the shot, making the other man drop his gun in shock and disgust. As Lestrade arrived to arrest them a little while later, John thought it was strange how they could butcher other people, but not stand to shoot each other even by accident. 

~*~

"That, Sherlock, was dangerous," John scolded after they returned to 221b for the first time in three days. Lestrade had almost had them running about non-stop after one madman or another, trying to stamp out the ever-swelling tide of criminals that were fighting for power. 

"Idiots!" Sherlock murmured, ignoring John completely. "All of them, idiots! Having a pissing contest over who can commit the most gruesome murder is not the way to take Moriarty's place," the detective hissed angrily as he pulled off his coat and hung it up with his scarf. "The least they could do is be original. Evisceration, really? And the other one, draining the body of blood? So over-done it's all boring." The detective grumbled to himself as he flopped down onto the couch to pout. John glared at him as he hung up his own coat. 

"Are you listening to me?" the doctor demanded, stalking over to where the detective continued to moan about the lack of creativity in today's murderers. Apparently not.

Growling in frustration, John grabbed the detective and flipped him over. Sherlock looked a little surprised, and let out a startled huff of breath when John leaned down and nuzzled along his neck before running his tongue up from the younger man's collarbone to his earlobe. Sherlock groaned and arched a bit, and John slid his hand along the lapel of the detective's dark suit jacket. 

"Do I have your attention now?" John breathed in Sherlock's ear. 

"Yes," he moaned back as the doctor's hand slid lower along his belly, then over the soft bulge of Sherlock's cock, which was quickly swelling to hardness with interest. 

"Good," John mumbled, palming the detective through his trousers until the younger man was bucking his hips in an effort to get more friction. The doctor sucked a love bite or three onto the pale skin of Sherlock's throat, his own pants feeling far too tight as the detective gasped softly beneath him. "Bedroom?" John mumbled into Sherlock's neck, and the younger man nodded, scrambling to get up. They practically sprinted for Sherlock's room, which was closer and didn't have stairs to combat while groping desperately at each other. They paused in the kitchen where Sherlock pressed John to the fridge and leaned down, savagely attacking his mouth with his own, lips, tongue, and teeth all coming together in a wet, hot snog that almost took John out at the knees. They staggered into Sherlock's room and tumbled onto the bed, the younger man working determinedly to yank John's jumper off over his head and toss it aside. John didn't bother with gentleness, he tore Sherlock's jacket and shirt open, mercilessly popping off the buttons and baring the detective's chest to his mouth and hands. 

"Mm, God, Sherlock," John groaned as the detective lurched under him, keening as the doctor dragged the tip of his tongue down from over Sherlock's heart to his navel. 

"John!" Sherlock gasped, grabbing at him and pulling at him until his jumper finally came free, taking the shirt beneath it along for the ride. Sherlock ran his hands over the doctor's body, reaching his trousers. With a frustrated growl, Sherlock rolled them, grabbing at John's feet to pull off his shoes and socks before turning to the zip on John's trousers. The jeans came off, quickly followed by the doctor's plain white pants. John's cock sprang free, laying hard and heavy against his lower belly. Sherlock licked his lips before leaning down to grab John's hips and rub his nose through the dark gold hair around the base, smelling the muskiness of John's sex and feeling the coarse texture of the thatch of hair against his skin. John groaned and bucked a bit under Sherlock as the detective teasingly flicked his tongue over the mushroom-cap head, tasting the drop of precum that had gathered in the slit. 

"God, Sherlock, please!" the doctor gasped, arching and fisting the sheets. With a slightly wicked grin, Sherlock slowly drew his tongue along the underside of John's cock, watching as the doctor threw his head back, crying out in pleasure. Once he reached the tip, Sherlock slowly sucked the head into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he pushed down as far as he could go. John groaned, reaching down to tangle his hands in Sherlock's unruly curls, rolling his hips a bit. Slowly, Sherlock dragged his lips and tongue back up the length of John's cock, and then swirled his tongue around the head before sliding back down. He repeated the motion, increasing his speed until his head was bobbing up and down over John's groin, the doctor crying out and writhing slightly beneath him. 

"Sherlock-" John gasped out in warning, "I'm gonna-!" He made to pull the detective's sinful mouth off his cock, but Sherlock growled, pushing further down than he'd tried before, relaxing his jaw and throat until he had all of John's cock in his mouth. The combination of the vibration and the sudden heat and wetness along the entire length of him caused John to buck hard and let out a hoarse shout as he came violently down Sherlock's throat, making the detective stiffen and swallow around him as he fought to keep control over his gag reflex. 

Slowly, Sherlock let John's softening cock slip from between his lips, watching the doctor stare unseeingly up at the ceiling. Smirking, Sherlock crawled up his body until his own erection (throbbingly furious at the lack of attention) was pressed against John's thigh. Sherlock slowly rolled his hips against him, kissing and nipping at the doctor's neck, making him moan softly. 

"Mmm," Sherlock sighed as John turned his head, pressing his mouth against his for a soft, lazy kiss. The detective thrusted harder against his leg, and John slid a hand along his body, then wrapped his fingers lovingly around the younger man's thick cock. Sherlock shuddered slightly as the doctor began to stroke him, rolling them onto their sides so that it was easier for him to pull his hand from base to tip, twisting slightly. John pressed his lips harder against Sherlock's, sliding his tongue between the younger man's lips, groaning as he tasted his own come in the detective's mouth. Sherlock grabbed at John's shoulders, bucking into his hand. 

"God, Sherlock," John gasped as the younger man's lips parted from his own to give a small cry of pleasure as the doctor unexpectedly ran his thumb over the head of his cock on an upstroke. 

"Want you," Sherlock choked, arching into John's touch. "Fuck, John, I want you so bad." He slid one long-fingered hand down from John's shoulder and down his back to grab at his arse. John gasped and twitched a little as Sherlock gently ran his fingers over the cleft of his arse, teasing and probing gently as he slid further along. 

"God," John gasped as Sherlock's long fingers gently probed at his hole. The doctor's skin tingled, and he had the sudden urge to roll onto his belly and beg for Sherlock to do unspeakable things to him. 

"John," Sherlock moaned when the doctor's stroking faltered. " _Please_." John felt himself growing hard again at the pleading note in the detective's voice, and this time, he didn't resist the sudden desire to roll over. He scrambled for the center of the bed and laid flat on his belly, burying his face in the pillow from embarrassment as Sherlock quickly followed him, peppering kisses along his spine. Two hands gently kneaded the globes of John's arse, making the doctor moan softly into the pillow. One hand vanished for a moment, then reappeared, rubbing at the crack of his arse, gently massaging around his hole, wet with what could only be saliva. John jumped and the fingers stilled for a moment before resuming, slowly, gently, lovingly caressing the twitching ring of muscle. Sherlock's mouth pressed against the doctor's lower back, kissing, licking, and biting gently into the curves of muscle and skin. Sherlock continued to gently rub as John relaxed, following the soft caress of Sherlock's mouth down his spine until he nipped at the rise of one buttock. 

"Ah!" John gasped, jerking slightly, but Sherlock was not deterred, making his way more quickly along the curve of John's bum, before removing his fingers and nuzzling gently at John's flesh with his face. The doctor felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and arousal, his cock feeling unbearably hot and heavy against his belly for having just come not even five minutes ago. 

Suddenly, John felt something hot and wet suddenly swipe along the crack of his arse, making him jump and clench automatically as he realized the Sherlock had just licked him in one of his most very private of places. The detective chuckled at his reaction, and coaxed the doctor up onto his knees, though John kept his face buried in the pillow.

Sherlock gently stroked John's erection as he kissed and licked around, but not directly on, John's hole, making the doctor groan and shudder. 

Then, Sherlock pressed his tongue against, and then inside of John's entrance, increasing his pace of stroking on the other man's cock. The doctor cried out, lurching forward, but Sherlock held him in place with one hand, laving attention on John's hole. The doctor groaned and slowly relaxed again, and Sherlock slowly increased the pressure and started pressing his tongue as deep into John as he could get it. After a few minutes, John was panting and moaning beneath him, pressing his arse back against Sherlock's face as the detective worked to get him as loose and wet as he could manage. The detective felt like he was about to burst any second, and he only lasted a few more moments before his patience snapped and he straightened. 

"John," Sherlock gasped. "If you want to stop-if you don't want-tell me now, because after this, I don't think I could stop-" 

"Please, Sherlock!" John moaned, pushing his hips back against the younger man, his body crying out, aching to be filled in a way that was new and scary and thrilling. The detective didn't wait anymore. He lined himself up with John's entrance, and slowly pushed his way in. John gasped at the stretch, an uncomfortable burn making itself known. Sherlock paused and waited until the man beneath him slowly rocked back. With a groan, Sherlock pressed further forward, and John gasped as the head of the detective's cock passed the first ring of muscle, and slid much more easily into his body. After a moment, Sherlock was sunk to the hilt, head thrown back, trembling from the top of his head to the tips of his toes in an effort not to come right there. 

"God," Sherlock choked, gripping tightly at John's hips, hard enough to leave angry red marks behind. "John." 

"Sherlock," the doctor whispered, clenching instinctively around the length of Sherlock inside his body. The detective gave a strangled cry, leaning over John, keeping his orgasm at bay by sheer force of will. 

"Fuck, John, if you want this to last more than two seconds, _do not do that again_ ," the younger man hissed. John shuddered and fought the desire to tighten around him once more. 

After a few torturous minutes while Sherlock regained control over himself, the detective slowly began to rock his hips against John, pulling out by a fraction and gently thrusting back in. John groaned at the minute slide. 

"Please, Sherlock, more," he moaned, clutching desperately at the sheets. The younger man started thrusting a little more, a little faster, a little harder. "Sherlock!" John cried, pushing back hard against the detective as pleasure sparked through his body when the tip of Sherlock's cock scraped against what he knew was his prostate. 

Gasping for air, Sherlock grabbed John's hips and started driving into him, making the bed creak and complain, the headboard banging into the wall as John cried out with every thrust. The brief thought that Mrs. Hudson could probably hear them flicked across Sherlock's mind, but he then decided that he didn't care. Let the whole street hear. Let all of London, all the _world_ hear, because Sherlock Holmes was fucking John Watson, and he wouldn't be anywhere else, doing anything else. Well. Any _one_ else. 

Sherlock felt his balls tighten almost to the point of pain, heat coiling in his guts as John writhed beneath him, gasping and howling Sherlock's name. 

"Sherlock! Don't-Oh, _GOD_ -don't stop, for God's sake, don't _stop_ -!" John cried, reaching beneath himself to pull quickly on his cock, bringing himself to orgasm within three strokes. Sherlock felt John's body stiffen and then pulse and flutter around his cock, and the detective shouted his release as the most spectacular orgasm of his life swept over him, turning his vision white and flooding his brain with so many chemicals he lost everything for a moment, everything but the pleasure of feeling John's hot body tight and pulsing around him. 

~*~

They couldn't seem to find the energy to get out of bed and fetch a flannel to clean up with; they simply laid there, sweating and panting and entangled around each other. John seemed ready to sleep for several days, and Sherlock, well, he could probably stand to sleep for a whole year. John chuckled weakly as the detective pulled him closer, wrapping his long arms around John's body and nuzzling his face into his blond hair. 

"Mmm," Sherlock breathed, kissing the top of John's head. "I love you." John's heart leaped and his eyes flew wide open, jerking his head up to stare at the detective, who looked at him with amused green eyes. John's surprised gaze softened. 

"I love you, too." John kissed Sherlock gently, lazily, and after a few minutes, laid his head down on Sherlock's shoulder. Within moments, they were both asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. There's your friggin' smut. It's 2:15 in the morning. You all better love me for this. 
> 
> So, the next chapter might be the last. 3 more at the very most, and then this fic will be coming to an end at last. 
> 
> I WILL NOT throw another plot twist into this story, no matter how much I want to! Though, I am seriously considering it....
> 
> Good God, you all must think I'm the spawn of Satan sometimes....
> 
> Anyway. Good night. Leave me a lovely comment full of love for I slave over my computer for your love. 
> 
> .....I need sleep.


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, guys, this is it. This is the last chapter. It's a fluffy comedy-ridden epilogue, written mostly for my own benefit so I could feel a little better about closing the story and changing it from a WIP to COMPLETE. It's not very long, but this is the last of it. I just want to thank every single person who read this fic, whether you loved or hated it, whether you left me a comment or kudos or just read it. This is the end. 
> 
> :)

John woke to find that Sherlock was an enormous duvet hog. And mattress hog. And aparently part octopus, for everytime the doctor tried to slide out of the bed, one long limb or another would catch him and drag him back. 

"Sherlock," John protested, and the detective grunted something into his pillow, one arm tightening around the doctor's waist. John sighed and leaned back into the younger man, who cuddled closer to him happily. Sherlock placed a few sleepy kisses on the back of John's neck, and the doctor jumped slightly when the detective pressed an unexpected morning problem firmly against his bum. 

"Mmm," Sherlock sighed, rocking his erection slightly against John's arse. "Morning." 

"Morning," John squeaked, feeling a slight twinge of painful pleasure as Sherlock's cock scraped across his sore entrance. "I don't-Sherlock, I don't think I can, again, not so soon," the doctor panted, causing the detective to pause in his gentle thrusting. 

"Alright," Sherlock said softly, sliding sensually around John's body until they were face to face. John flushed deeply at the detective's smirking half-smile as a long fingered hand wrapped around his own morning erection. John gasped as Sherlock gently stroked him, arching a bit under his touch. 

"God, Sherlock," John groaned, grabbing at the detective and kissing him hard. Sherlock moaned a bit into his mouth, and John pushed at him until he was on his back, moving from his mouth to kiss along his jaw, leaving several bright love-bites along his neck. Sherlock bucked his hips up against John, moaning as the doctor ran his tongue down his chest, pausing to experiment with the detective's nipples, sucking slightly and nibbling just a bit. Sherlock gasped and his fingers scrabbled at the sheets as John did so, smiling and filing the information away for later. Then he moved down Sherlock's belly, dipping his tongue briefly into his navel, and then kissing the tip of the detective's cock. Sherlock groaned and thrust up towards John's face, making the older man chuckle. 

John ran his tongue around the underside of the head of Sherlock's cock, teasing at the sensitive skin, lapping gently at the fat drops of precum that were starting to gather at the slit. The flavor was strange and thick, very different from a woman's body. John found, with only a small amount of surprise, he preferred Sherlock's salty precum. Slowly, John wrapped his lips around the head and slid down Sherlock's length, making the younger man gasp. 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and fought not to buck wildly up into John's throat, but good God, it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before as John sucked Sherlock down his throat, one hand curled around the base of his rigid cock. John did something with his tongue that made Sherlock cry out and throw his head back, fighting not to just grab the doctor's head and fuck his mouth until he came down his throat. 

Sherlock's mobile buzzed on the bedside table, and they ignored it, too busy to notice. They continued to ignore it as it went off four more times in the next three minutes.

Whatever it was, it could bloody well wait. 

Then, Sherlock's mobile began to ring, loudly. 

Snarling, the detective reached out and grabbed it, snapping it open to growl, "What?" 

_"Sherlock? I have a case for you."_

"Obviously, or else you wouldn't be calling. The case can wait. I'm-ah!-busy." 

_"The case can_ wait _?"_ Lestrade repeated incredulously. _"Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"_

"Amazing. Incredible. _Perfect!"_ Sherlock gasped as John wickedly released his cock to suck gently on one of his balls, one finger rubbing teasingly down towards the detective's own hole. 

_"Okay, now I'm really concerned. Are you being held hostage? Do you want me to send someone over there?"_

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said with a wicked grin down at John, whose eyes sparkled back up at him. "And no, that won't be neccessar-- _Oh, GOD, JOHN!_ " Sherlock bucked and almost dropped the phone as the doctor slid one finger inside his body, grazing purposefully over his prostate. 

_"Sherlock? Sherlock!"_

"Y-yes, Lestrade?" Sherlock gasped as John rubbed lightly over the sensitive bump inside his body, running his tongue over the underside of his cock. Sherlock's eyes spoke as revenge as he stared down at the pleased man lying between his spread legs. 

_"Is John throwing shit at you again? What are you bloody fighting over this time? Hand me over so I can talk some sense into him."_

"I'm afraid John's mouth is- _haaahnnn_ -otherwise occupied at the moment," Sherlock groaned, letting his head drop back as John added a second finger and started sucking lazily at the head of his cock again. There was silence from the other end of the line, and Sherlock smirked, knowing that Lestrade was putting one and one together and coming up with sex. 

_"My God, are you-you wouldn't-for fuck's sake, Sherlock, is John_ sucking you off _while you're_ on the phone with me _?"_ Lestrade hissed, sounding scandalized and outraged. Sherlock smirked, or tried to, he was a little busy panting with pleasure as John worked miricles with his hands and tongue. 

"Excellent deduction, Detective Inspector," Sherlock practically purred as John's free hand massaged gently at the inside of his thigh, helping him relax his hole enough for a third finger. The DI made a strangled sound, but Sherlock failed to notice, a little caught up in the orgasm that suddenly struck him as John took him all the way down his throat and began to furiously work his prostate. " _Ah-ah-ah-ahhhhh!_ " Sherlock cried out as his body suddenly went into revolt, contracting and squeezing around John's fingers, his cock twitching and spurting his seed into John's mouth. He dropped the phone, but couldn't bring himself to care. Slowly, he relaxed, slumping bonelessly back into the bed. 

"I think," Sherlock said softly, "I'm quite fond of morning sex." John laughed softly, though they both fell silent as the sound of Lestrade hanging up blooped out from the mobile's speaker. John frowned at it a bit. 

"I'm not sure I like knowing Lestrade's heard you come," the doctor said wryly. "Now, I heard something about a crime scene?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all my lovely readers. Hopefully, I'll decide which fic I want to start next, and begin on it soon and have it up here for you. 
> 
> P.S. I'll tell you a little secret, if you're truly devastated about this one ending: 
> 
> I'm thinking about maybe writing a sequel someday. 
> 
> Maybe. 
> 
> :D

**Author's Note:**

> So what did you think?


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